The Great Gatsby (Wisehouse Classics Edition). F. Scott Fitzgerald

went without having met Gatsby at all, came for the party with a simplicity of heart that was its own ticket of admission.

      I had been actually invited. A chauffeur in a uniform of robin’s-egg blue crossed my lawn early that Saturday morning with a surprisingly formal note from his employer: the honor would be entirely Gatsby’s, 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.