The Great Gatsby

it said, if I would attend his “little party” that night. He had seen
me several times, and had intended to call on me long before, but a
peculiar combination of circumstances had prevented it—signed Jay
Gatsby, in a majestic hand.

Dressed up in white flannels I went over to his lawn a little after
seven, and wandered around rather ill at ease among swirls and eddies
of people I didn’t know—though here and there was a face I had noticed
on the commuting train. I was immediately struck by the number of
young Englishmen dotted about; all well dressed, all looking a little
hungry, and all talking in low, earnest voices to solid and prosperous
Americans. I was sure that they were selling something: bonds or
insurance or automobiles. They were at least agonizingly aware of the
easy money in the vicinity and convinced that it was theirs for a few
words in the right key.

As soon as I arrived I made an attempt to find my host, but the two or
three people of whom I asked his whereabouts stared at me in such an
amazed way, and denied so vehemently any knowledge of his movements,
that I slunk off in the direction of the cocktail table—the only place
in the garden where a single man could linger without looking