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F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby

inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned toward me. “I‟ll tell you a family secret,” she whispered

enthusiastically. “It‟s about the butler‟s nose. Do you want to hear about the butler‟s nose?” “That‟s why I came over to-night.” “Well, he wasn‟t always a butler; he used to be the silver

polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people. He had to polish it from morning till night, until finally it began to affect his nose ——” “Things went from bad to worse,” suggested Miss Baker. “Yes. Things went from bad to worse, until finally he had to

give up his position.” For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection

upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened — then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk. The butler came back and murmured something close to

Tom‟s ear, whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair, and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her, Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing.

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