“It's pretty, isn't it, old sport?” He jumped off to give me a better view. “Haven't you ever seen it before?”
I'd seen it. Everybody had seen it. It was a rich cream color, bright with nickel. We sat down behind many layers of glass and started to town.
I had talked with him some times in the past month and found, to my disappointment, that he had little to say. So he had become simply the proprietor of a wonderful restaurant next door.
And then came that silly ride. Gatsby was leaving his elegant sentences unfinished.
“Look here, old sport,” he said surprisingly. “What's your opinion of me, anyhow?”
“Hm, I don't know much…” I began.
“Well, I'm going to tell you something about my life,” he interrupted. “I don't want you to get a wrong idea of me from all these stories you hear. I'll tell you the truth. I am the son of some wealthy people in the Middle-West – all dead now. I was brought up in America but educated at Oxford because all my ancestors have been educated there for many years. It is a family tradition.”
“What part of the Middle-West?” I inquired.
“San Francisco.”
“I see.”
“My family all died and I came into a good deal of money.”
His voice was solemn.
“After that I lived like a young prince in all the capitals of Europe – Paris, Venice, Rome – collecting jewels, chiefly rubies, hunting, painting a little, things for myself only, and trying to forget something very sad that had happened to me long ago. Then came the war, old sport. I was promoted to be a major. Here's a thing I always carry. A souvenir of Oxford days. The man on my left is now the Earl of Doncaster.”
It was a photograph of young men. There was Gatsby, looking a little, not much, younger – with a cricket bat in his hand.
Then it was all true.
“I'm going to make a big request of you today,” he said, “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 know 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.”