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From farther out on the Island came the Cheadles and the O. He came only once, in white knickerbockers, and had a fight with a bum named Etty in the garden. Clarence Endive was from East Egg, as I remember.

Chrystie’s wife), and Edgar Beaver, whose hair, they say, turned cotton-white one winter afternoon for no good reason at all. And the Ismays and the Chrysties (or rather Hubert Auerbach and Mr. And the Hornbeams and the Willie Voltaires, and a whole clan named Blackbuck, who always gathered in a corner and flipped up their noses like goats at whosoever came near. From East Egg, then, came the Chester Beckers and the Leeches, and a man named Bunsen, whom I knew at Yale, and Doctor Webster Civet, who was drowned last summer up in Maine. It is an old time-table now, disintegrating at its folds, and headed “This schedule in effect July 5th, 1922.” But I can still read the gray names, and they will give you a better impression than my generalities of those who accepted Gatsby’s hospitality and paid him the subtle tribute of knowing nothing whatever about him. Reach me a rose, honey, and pour me a last drop into that there crystal glass.” Once I wrote down on the empty spaces of a time-table the names of those who came to Gatsby’s house that summer. “One time he killed a man who had found out that he was nephew to Von Hindenburg and second cousin to the devil.

“He’s a bootlegger,” said the young ladies, moving somewhere between his cocktails and his flowers. On Sunday morning while church bells rang in the villages alongshore, the world and its mistress returned to Gatsby’s house and twinkled hilariously on his lawn.