“Have it your own way,” she said. “Come on, Jordan.”
They went upstairs to get ready while we three men stood there shuffling the hot pebbles with our feet. A silver curve of the moon hovered already in the western sky. Gatsby started to speak, changed his mind, but not before Tom wheeled and faced him expectantly.
“Have you got your stables here?” asked Gatsby with an effort.
“About a quarter of a mile down the road.”
“Oh.”
A pause.
“I don’t see the idea of going to town,” broke out Tom savagely. “Women get these notions in their heads—”
“Shall we take anything to drink?” called Daisy from an upper window.
“I’ll get some whisky,” answered Tom. He went inside.
Gatsby turned to me rigidly: