Gatsby’s gardens were a place of ecstatic dancing, in which the whole world seemed to be having a gay time. The women had French bobs, and blush rounded the apples of their cheeks. The men flirted through pocket doors between green and gold rooms. Fingernails shined with paintings of butterflies and stars. The dresses were loose, the waists set low. But there was something daring about how many were sleeveless, how filmy the fabrics were, how many were shades of pink or beige or brown that nearly matched the skin.
