The Great Gatsby

the premature moon, produced like the supper, no doubt, out of a
caterer’s basket. With Jordan’s slender golden arm resting in mine, we
descended the steps and sauntered about the garden. A tray of
cocktails floated at us through the twilight, and we sat down at a
table with the two girls in yellow and three men, each one introduced
to us as Mr. Mumble.

“Do you come to these parties often?” inquired Jordan of the girl
beside her.

“The last one was the one I met you at,” answered the girl, in an
alert confident voice. She turned to her companion: “Wasn’t it for
you, Lucille?”

It was for Lucille, too.

“I like to come,” Lucille said. “I never care what I do, so I always
have a good time. When I was here last I tore my gown on a chair, and
he asked me my name and address—inside of a week I got a package from
Croirier’s with a new evening gown in it.”

“Did you keep it?” asked Jordan.

“Sure I did. I was going to wear it tonight, but it was too big in the
bust and had to be altered. It was gas blue with lavender beads. Two
hundred and sixty-five dollars.”

“There’s something funny about a fellow that’ll do a thing like that,”
said the other girl eagerly. “He doesn’t want any trouble with