“Suppose I don’t go to Southampton, and come into town this afternoon?”
“No—I don’t think this afternoon.”
“Very well.”
“It’s impossible this afternoon. Various—”
We talked like that for a while, and then abruptly we weren’t talking any longer. I don’t know which of us hung up with a sharp click, but I know I didn’t care. I couldn’t have talked to her across a tea-table that day if I never talked to her again in this world.
I called Gatsby’s house a few minutes later, but the line was busy. I tried four times; finally an exasperated central told me the wire was being kept open for long distance from Detroit. Taking out my timetable, I drew a small circle around the three-fifty train. Then I leaned back in my chair and tried to think. It was just noon.
When I passed the ash-heaps on the train that morning I had crossed deliberately to the other side