F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Great Gatsby
“Is everything all right?” he asked immediately. “The grass looks fine, if that‟s what you mean.” “What grass?” he inquired blankly. “Oh, the grass in the
yard.” He looked out the window at it, but, judging from his expression, I don‟t believe he saw a thing. “Looks very good,” he remarked vaguely. “One of the
papers said they thought the rain would stop about four. I think it was the JOURNAL. Have you got everything you need in the shape of—of tea?” I took him into the pantry, where he looked a little
reproachfully at the Finn. Together we scrutinized the twelve lemon cakes from the delicatessen shop. “Will they do?” I asked. “Of course, of course! They‟re fine!” and he added hollowly,
“. . .old sport.” The rain cooled about half-past three to a damp mist,
through which occasional thin drops swam like dew. Gatsby looked with vacant eyes through a copy of Clay‟s ECONOMICS, starting at the Finnish tread that shook the kitchen floor, and peering toward the bleared windows from time to time as if a series of invisible but alarming happenings were taking place outside. Finally he got up and informed me, in an uncertain voice, that he was going home.