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F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby

steps, and I thought of the night when I first came to his ancestral home, three months before. The lawn and drive had been crowded with the faces of those who guessed at his corruption — and he had stood on those steps, concealing his incorruptible dream, as he waved them good-by. I thanked him for his hospitality. We were always thanking

him for that —I and the others. “Good-by,” I called. “I enjoyed breakfast, Gatsby.” Up in the city, I tried for a while to list the quotations on an

interminable amount of stock, then I fell asleep in my swivel- chair. Just before noon the phone woke me, and I started up with sweat breaking out on my forehead. It was Jordan Baker; she often called me up at this hour because the uncertainty of her own movements between hotels and clubs and private houses made her hard to find in any other way. Usually her voice came over the wire as something fresh and cool, as if a divot from a green golf-links had come sailing in at the office window, but this morning it seemed harsh and dry. “I‟ve left Daisy‟s house,” she said. “I‟m at Hempstead, and

I‟m going down to Southampton this afternoon.” Probably it had been tactful to leave Daisy‟s house, but the

act annoyed me, and her next remark made me rigid. “You weren‟t so nice to me last night.”

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