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F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby That was for the golf tournament. She had lost in the finals

the week before. “You don‟t know who we are,” said one of the girls in

yellow, “but we met you here about a month ago.” “You‟ve dyed your hair since then,” remarked Jordan, and I

started, but the girls had moved casually on and her remark was addressed to the premature moon, produced like the supper, no doubt, out of a caterer‟s basket. With Jordan‟s slender golden arm resting in mine, we descended the steps and sauntered about the garden. A tray of cocktails floated at us through the twilight, and we sat down at a table with the two girls in yellow and three men, each one introduced to us as Mr. Mumble. “Do you come to these parties often?” inquired Jordan of

the girl beside her. “The last one was the one I met you at,” answered the girl,

in an alert confident voice. She turned to her companion: “Wasn‟t it for you, Lucille?” It was for Lucille, too. “I like to come,” Lucille said. “I never care what I do, so I

always have a good time. When I was here last I tore my gown on a chair, and he asked me my name and address — inside of

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