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F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby

switched back to her she leaned forward with enthusiasm. “You look at him sometimes when he thinks nobody‟s looking at him. I‟ll bet he killed a man.” She narrowed her eyes and shivered. Lucille shivered. We

all turned and looked around for Gatsby. It was testimony to the romantic speculation he inspired that there were whispers about him from those who found little that it was necessary to whisper about in this world. The first supper — there would be another one after

midnight — was now being served, and Jordan invited me to join her own party, who were spread around a table on the other side of the garden. There were three married couples and Jordan‟s escort, a persistent undergraduate given to violent innuendo, and obviously under the impression that sooner or later Jordan was going to yield him up her person to a greater or lesser degree. Instead of rambling, this party had preserved a dignified homogeneity, and assumed to itself the function of representing the staid nobility of the country-side — East Egg condescending to West Egg, and carefully on guard against its spectroscopic gayety. “Let‟s get out,” whispered Jordan, after a somehow

wasteful and inappropriate half-hour. “This is much too polite for me.”

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