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F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby

hurrying toward gayety and sharing their intimate excitement, I wished them well. For a while I lost sight of Jordan Baker, and then in

midsummer I found her again. At first I was flattered to go places with her, because she was a golf champion, and every one knew her name. Then it was something more. I wasn‟t actually in love, but I felt a sort of tender curiosity. The bored haughty face that she turned to the world concealed something —most affectations conceal something eventually, even though they don‟t in the beginning—and one day I found what it was. When we were on a house-party together up in Warwick, she left a borrowed car out in the rain with the top down, and then lied about it —and suddenly I remembered the story about her that had eluded me that night at Daisy‟s. At her first big golf tournament there was a row that nearly reached the newspapers —a suggestion that she had moved her ball from a bad lie in the semi-final round. The thing approached the proportions of a scandal — then died away. A caddy retracted his statement, and the only other witness admitted that he might have been mistaken. The incident and the name had remained together in my mind. Jordan Baker instinctively avoided clever, shrewd men, and now I saw that this was because she felt safer on a plane where

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