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F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby

upon the slightest provocation to uncontrollable laughter. I was enjoying myself now. I had taken two finger-bowls of champagne, and the scene had changed before my eyes into something significant, elemental, and profound. At a lull in the entertainment the man looked at me and

smiled. “Your face is familiar,” he said, politely. “Weren‟t you in the

Third Division during the war?” “Why, yes. I was in the Ninth Machine-gun Battalion.” “I was in the Seventh Infantry until June nineteen-eighteen.

I knew I‟d seen you somewhere before.” We talked for a moment about some wet, gray little villages

in France. Evidently he lived in this vicinity, for he told me that he had just bought a hydroplane, and was going to try it out in the morning. “Want to go with me, old sport? Just near the shore along

the Sound.” “What time?” “Any time that suits you best.” It was on the tip of my tongue to ask his name when Jordan

looked around and smiled. “Having a gay time now?” she inquired.

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