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F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby It was a photograph of half a dozen young men in blazers

loafing in an archway through which were visible a host of spires. There was Gatsby, looking a little, not much, younger — with a cricket bat in his hand. Then it was all true. I saw the skins of tigers flaming in his

palace on the Grand Canal; I saw him opening a chest of rubies to ease, with their crimson-lighted depths, the gnawings of his broken heart. “I‟m going to make a big request of you to-day,” he said,

pocketing his souvenirs with satisfaction, “so I thought you ought to know something about me. I didn‟t want you to think I was just some nobody. You see, I usually find myself among strangers because I drift here and there trying to forget the sad thing that happened to me.” He hesitated. “You‟ll hear about it this afternoon.” “At lunch?” “No, this afternoon. I happened to find out that you‟re

taking Miss Baker to tea.” “Do you mean you‟re in love with Miss Baker?” “No, old sport, I‟m not. But Miss Baker has kindly

consented to speak to you about this matter.” I hadn‟t the faintest idea what “this matter.” was, but I was more annoyed than interested. I hadn‟t asked Jordan to tea in

88

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