The Tea Date

When I came home to West Egg that night I was afraid for a moment that my house was on fire. Two o'clock and the whole corner of the peninsula was blazing with light, which fell unreal on the shrubbery and made thin elongating glints upon the roadside wires. Turning a corner, I saw that it was Haywood's house, lit from tower to cellar.

At first I thought it was another party, a wild rout that had resolved itself into "hide-and-go-seek. But there wasn't a sound. Only wind in the trees, which blew the wires and made the lights go off and on again as if the house had winked into the darkness. As my taxi groaned away I saw Ryan walking toward me across his lawn.

"Your place looks like the World's Fair," I said.

"Does it?" He turned his eyes toward it absently. "I have been glancing into some of the rooms. Let's go to Coney Island, old sport. In my car. What do you say, Michael?"

"It's too late."

"Well, suppose we take a plunge in the swimming-pool? I haven't made use of it all summer."

"I've got to go to bed."

"All right." He waited, looking at me with suppressed eagerness.

"I talked with Mr. Ramsey," I said after a moment. "I'm going to call up Gavin tomorrow and invite him over here to tea."

"Oh, that's all right," he said carelessly. "I don't want to put you to any trouble."

"What day would suit you?"

"What day would suit you?" he corrected me quickly. "I don't want to put you to any trouble, you see."

"How about the day after tomorrow?" He considered for a moment. Then, with reluctance:

"I want to get the grass cut." he said.

* * *

The evening had made me light-headed and happy; I think I walked into a deep sleep as I entered my front door. So I didn't know whether or not Haywood went to Coney Island, or for how many hours he "glanced into rooms" while his house blazed gaudily on. I called up Gavin from the office next morning, and invited him to come for tea.

"Don't bring Meg," I warned him.

"What?"

"Don't bring Meg."

"Who is 'Meg'?" he asked innocently.

The day agreed upon was pouring rain. At eleven o'clock a man in a raincoat, dragging a lawn-mower, tapped at my front door and said that Mr. Haywood had sent him over to cut my grass.

The flowers were unnecessary, for at two o'clock a greenhouse arrived from Ryan's, with innumerable receptacles to contain it. An hour later the front door opened nervously, and Ryan, in a white flannel suit, silver shirt, and gold-colored tie, hurried in. He was pale, and there were dark signs of sleeplessness beneath his eyes.