The Great Gatsby. Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд

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 anybody.”