CJAPTER 50

on golf courses in the early, crisp mornings.

I was alone, and it was almost two. For some time, confused and intriguing sounds had been coming from a long, many-windowed room overlooking the terrace. Avoiding

Casey's undergraduate, who was now engaged in a medical discussion with two chorus girls and implored me to join him, I went inside.

The large room was crowded. One of the girls in yellow was playing the piano, and next to her stood a tall, red-haired young lady from a famous chorus, engaged in singing. She

had drunk a fair amount of champagne and, during her song, had ineptly decided that everything was very, very sad—she was not only singing but also weeping. Whenever

there was a pause in the song, she filled it with gasping, broken sobs, then resumed the lyrics in a quavering soprano. The tears coursed down her cheeks—not freely, however,

as when they came into contact with her heavily beaded eyelashes, they turned an inky color, and continued their slow, black journey. A humorous suggestion was made that

she sing the notes on her face, after which she threw up her hands, sank into a chair, and fell into a deep, wine-induced sleep.

"She had a fight with a man who says he's her husband," explained a girl beside me.

I looked around. Most of the remaining women were now in disputes with men said to

be their husbands. Even Casey's party, the quartet from East Egg, was torn apart by disagreement. One of the men was talking with curious intensity to a young actress,

and his wife, after attempting to laugh off the situation in a dignified and indifferent manner, broke down entirely and resorted to flank attacks—periodically she