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F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby

“Well, you come,” she urged, concentrating on Gatsby. Mr. Sloane murmured something close to her ear. “We won‟t be late if we start now,” she insisted aloud. “I haven‟t got a horse,” said Gatsby. “I used to ride in the

army, but I‟ve never bought a horse. I‟ll have to follow you in my car. Excuse me for just a minute.” The rest of us walked out on the porch, where Sloane and

the lady began an impassioned conversation aside. “My God, I believe the man‟s coming,” said Tom. “Doesn‟t

he know she doesn‟t want him?” “She says she does want him.” “She has a big dinner party and he won‟t know a soul

there.” He frowned. “I wonder where in the devil he met Daisy. By God, I may be old-fashioned in my ideas, but women run around too much these days to suit me. They meet all kinds of crazy fish.” Suddenly Mr. Sloane and the lady walked down the steps

and mounted their horses. “Come on,” said Mr. Sloane to Tom, “we‟re late. We‟ve got

to go.” And then to me: “Tell him we couldn‟t wait, will you?” Tom and I shook hands, the rest of us exchanged a cool nod, and they trotted quickly down the drive, disappearing under

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