Великий Гэтсби

           TomandMissBakersatateitherendofthelongcouchandshereadaloudtohimfromtheSaturdayEveningPost.—thewords,murmurousanduninflected,runningtogetherinasoothingtune.Thelamp-light,brightonhisbootsanddullontheautumn-leafyellowofherhair,glintedalongthepaperassheturnedapagewithaflutterofslendermusclesinherarms.

           Whenwecameinsheheldussilentforamomentwithaliftedhand.

           "Tobecontinued,"shesaid,tossingthemagazineonthetable,"inourverynextissue."

           Herbodyasserteditselfwitharestlessmovementofherknee,andshestoodup.

           "Teno’clock,"sheremarked,apparentlyfindingthetimeontheceiling."Timeforthisgoodgirltogotobed."

           "Jordan’sgoingtoplayinthetournamentto-morrow,"explainedDaisy,"overatWestchester."

           "Oh—you’reJordanBaker."

           Iknewnowwhyherfacewasfamiliar—itspleasingcontemptuousexpressionhadlookedoutatmefrommanyrotogravurepicturesofthesportinglifeatAshevilleandHotSpringsandPalmBeach.Ihadheardsomestoryofhertoo,acritical,unpleasantstory,butwhatitwasIhadforgottenlongago.

           "Goodnight,"shesaidsoftly."Wakemeateight,won’tyou."

           "Ifyou’llgetup."

           "Iwill.Goodnight,Mr.Carraway.Seeyouanon."