I stayed late one night after one of Gatsby’s lavish affairs and lingered in the garden until the inevitable swimming party had run up, chilled and exalted, from the black beach, until the lights were extinguished in the guest rooms overhead.

I sat on the front steps. It was dark here in front; only the bright door sent ten square feet of light volleying out into the soft black morning. Sometimes a shadow moved against a dressing-room blind above, gave way to another shadow, an indefinite procession of shadows that rouged and powdered in an invisible glass.

I reached into the pocket of my suit jacket, fingers brushing against the familiar shape of a cigarette and the lighter beside it. With a flick, the flame caught, and I lit it slowly, savoring the quiet crackle in the still air.