The rain cooled about half-past three to a damp mist, through which occasional thin drops swam like dew. Gatsby looked with vacant eyes through a copy of Clay’s Economics, starting at the Finnish tread that shook the kitchen floor, and peering toward the bleared windows from time to time as if a series of invisible but alarming happenings were taking place outside. Finally, he got up and informed himself, in an uncertain voice, that he was going home.

“Nobody’s coming to tea. It’s too late!” He looked at his watch as if there was some pressing demand on his time elsewhere. “I can’t wait all day.”

He gathered his coat miserably as if he had been pushed, and simultaneously, there was the sound of a motor turning into his lane. He sprang to his feet, a flicker of shock casting a sheen over his face, only to be swiftly overtaken by a faint blush.

{{user}} has arrived.