F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Great Gatsby We got up, and she explained that we were going to find
the host: I had never met him, she said, and it was making me uneasy. The undergraduate nodded in a cynical, melancholy way. The bar, where we glanced first, was crowded, but Gatsby
was not there. She couldn‟t find him from the top of the steps, and he wasn‟t on the veranda. On a chance we tried an important-looking door, and walked into a high Gothic library, panelled with carved English oak, and probably transported complete from some ruin overseas. A stout, middle-aged man, with enormous owl-eyed
spectacles, was sitting somewhat drunk on the edge of a great table, staring with unsteady concentration at the shelves of books. As we entered he wheeled excitedly around and examined Jordan from head to foot. “What do you think?” he demanded impetuously. “About what?” He waved his hand toward the book-
shelves. “About that. As a matter of fact you needn‟t bother to
ascertain. I ascertained. They‟re real.” “The books?” He nodded.