When they met again two days later it was Gatsby who was breathless, who was somehow betrayed.
Her porch was bright with the bought luxury of star-shine; the wicker of the settee squeaked fashionably as she turned toward him and he kissed her curious and lovely mouth.
She had caught a cold and it made her voice huskier and more charming than ever,
and Gatsby was overwhelmingly aware of the youth and mystery that wealth imprisons and preserves, of the freshness of many clothes and of Daisy, gleaming like silver, safe and proud above the hot struggles of the poor.
"I can't describe to you how surprised I was to find out I loved her, old sport. I even hoped for a while that she'd throw me over, but she didn't, because she was in love with me too.
She thought I knew a lot because I knew different things from her… .
Well, there I was, way off（脱离了）my ambitions, getting deeper in love every minute, and all of a sudden I didn't care.
What was the use of doing great things if I could have a better time telling her what I was going to do?"
On the last afternoon before he went abroad he sat with Daisy in his arms for a long, silent time.
It was a cold fall day with fire in the room and her cheeks flushed. Now and then she moved and he changed his arm a little and once he kissed her dark shining hair.
The afternoon had made them tranquil for a while as if to give them a deep memory for the long parting the next day promised.
They had never been closer in their month of love nor communicated more profoundly one with another than when she brushed silent lips against his coat's shoulder or when he touched the end of her fingers, gently, as though she were asleep.
He did extraordinarily well in the war. He was a captain before he went to the front and following the Argonne battles（阿尔贡战役）he got his majority and the command of the divisional machine guns（师机枪连）.
After the Armistice he tried frantically to get home but some complication or misunderstanding sent him to Oxford instead.
He was worried now—there was a quality of nervous despair in Daisy's letters. She didn't see why he couldn't come.
She was feeling the pressure of the world outside and she wanted to see him and feel his presence beside her and be reassured that she was doing the right thing after all.
For Daisy was young and her artificial world was redolent of orchids and pleasant, cheerful snobbery and orchestras which set the rhythm of the year, summing up the sadness and suggestiveness of life in new tunes.
All night the saxophones wailed the hopeless comment of the "Beale Street Blues" while a hundred pairs of golden and silver slippers shuffled the shining dust.
At the gray tea hour there were always rooms that throbbed incessantly with this low sweet fever, while fresh faces drifted here and there like rose petals blown by the sad horns around the floor.
Through this twilight universe Daisy began to move again with the season;
suddenly she was again keeping half a dozen dates a day with half a dozen men and drowsing asleep at dawn with the beads and chiffon of an evening dress tangled among dying orchids on the floor beside her bed.
And all the time something within her was crying for a decision.
She wanted her life shaped now, immediately — and the decision must be made by some force — of love, of money, of unquestionable practicality — that was close at hand.
That force took shape in the middle of spring with the arrival of Tom Buchanan.
There was a wholesome bulkiness about his person and his position and Daisy was flattered. Doubtless there was a certain struggle and a certain relief.
The letter reached Gatsby while he was still at Oxford.
It was dawn now on Long Island and we went about opening the rest of the windows downstairs, filling the house with gray turning, gold turning light.
The shadow of a tree fell abruptly across the dew and ghostly birds began to sing among the blue leaves.
There was a slow pleasant movement in the air, scarcely a wind, promising a cool lovely day.
"I don't think she ever loved him." Gatsby turned around from a window and looked at me challengingly.
"You must remember, old sport, she was very excited this afternoon. He told her those things in a way that frightened her — that made it look as if I was some kind of cheap sharper. And the result was she hardly knew what she was saying."
He sat down gloomily.
"Of course she might have loved him, just for a minute, when they were first married—and loved me more even then, do you see?"
Suddenly he came out with a curious remark:
"In any case," he said, "it was just personal."
What could you make of that, except to suspect some intensity in his conception of the affair that couldn't be measured?
He came back from France when Tom and Daisy were still on their wedding trip, and made a miserable but irresistible journey to Louisville on the last of his army pay.
He stayed there a week, walking the streets where their footsteps had clicked together through the November night and revisiting the out-of-the-way（偏远的）places to which they had driven in her white car.
Just as Daisy's house had always seemed to him more mysterious and gay than other houses so his idea of the city itself, even though she was gone from it, was pervaded with a melancholy beauty.
He left feeling that if he had searched harder he might have found her — that he was leaving her behind.
The day-coach（普通客车）— he was penniless now — was hot. He went out to the open vestibule and sat down on a folding-chair, and the station slid away and the backs of unfamiliar buildings moved by.
Then out into the spring fields, where a yellow trolley raced them for a minute with people in it who might once have seen the pale magic of her face along the casual street.
（1048 words）
今日短语
1. throw sb. over抛弃某人
2. way off脱离了，远离了
3. get the command of控制
4. be redolent of充满了...的气味；使人联想起...
5. close at hand近在眼前
6. make of理解
7. be pervaded with 弥漫着
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