Now, in the reaction, he was running down like an overwound clock. He had been full of the idea so long, dreamed it right through to the end, waited with his teeth set, so to speak, at an inconceivable pitch of intensity. After his embarrassment and his unreasoning joy he was consumed with wonder at her presence. He had passed visibly through two states and was entering upon a third. "It's the funniest thing, old sport," he said hilariously. Daisy took the brush with delight, and smoothed her hair, whereupon Gatsby sat down and shaded his eyes and began to laugh. His bedroom was the simplest room of all-except where the dresser was garnished with a toilet set of pure dull gold. Once he nearly toppled down a flight of stairs.
Sometimes, too, he stared around at his possessions in a dazed way, as though in her actual and astounding presence none of it was any longer real. He hadn't once ceased looking at Daisy, and I think he revalued everything in his house according to the measure of response it drew from her well-loved eyes. Finally we came to Gatsby's own apartment, a bedroom and a bath, and an Adam study, where we sat down and drank a glass of some Chartreuse he took from a cupboard in the wall. Klipspringer, the "boarder." I had seen him wandering hungrily about the beach that morning. Rooms and poolrooms, and bathrooms, with sunken baths-intruding into one chamber where a dishevelled man in pajamas was doing liver exercises on the floor.
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