The Great Gatsby

“Come back in an hour, Ferdie.” Then in a grave murmur: “His name is
Ferdie.”

“Does the gasoline affect his nose?”

“I don’t think so,” she said innocently. “Why?”

We went in. To my overwhelming surprise the living-room was deserted.

“Well, that’s funny,” I exclaimed.

“What’s funny?”

She turned her head as there was a light dignified knocking at the
front door. I went out and opened it. Gatsby, pale as death, with his
hands plunged like weights in his coat pockets, was standing in a
puddle of water glaring tragically into my eyes.

With his hands still in his coat pockets he stalked by me into the
hall, turned sharply as if he were on a wire, and disappeared into the
living-room. It wasn’t a bit funny. Aware of the loud beating of my
own heart I pulled the door to against the increasing rain.

For half a minute there wasn’t a sound. Then from the living-room I
heard a sort of choking murmur and part of a laugh, followed by
Daisy’s voice on a clear artificial note:

“I certainly am awfully glad to see you again.”

A pause; it endured horribly. I had nothing to do in the hall, so I
went into the room.

Gatsby, his hands still in his pockets, was reclining against the