It wasn't until half-past three that I thought about leaving. The party was still going; Al Jolson songs played while dancing girls spilled champagne from their glasses. Not two hours before Tom got the idea to take Jake's car for a drive. Blowing the horn (and probably waking up the rest of West Egg), he zoomed out of the stables, kicking up rocks and puddles as he went. His supporters, all drunk, followed him, their laughter fading into the night.
I put down my empty glass and entered the library to bid Gatsby goodbye. He was in the corner, his back to the door. Daisy was there, half hidden by Gatsby's shoulders.
Tilting her head up at Gatsby, she said something to him. I couldn't make out the words, just the lovely timbre, which rose and fell as in song.
Thinking they'd wished to be alone, I turned around to go, but not before noticing the scarf Daisy was wearing around her neck. It had red and purple stripes, with fringe at the bottom, and seemed vaguely familiar.
Then the realization came that I had given her that scarf, long ago, in a pathetic display of boyish love. Now Gatsby was twisting it around his fingers.
Reddening with embarrassment, I realized I would never be that broad-shouldered figure. No matter what I did I'd never have his power, or his captivating charm. I wanted to punch Gatsby in his great, British face. But they had forgotten me. Daisy held out her hand; Gatsby pressed it to his heart. I looked once more at them and they only looked at each other, possessed by intense life. Then I went out of the room and down the marble steps into the rain, leaving them there together.