about the room, examining various indefinite objects in the half darkness. A large photograph of an elderly man in yachting costume attracted me, hung on the wall over his desk.
“Who’s this?”
“That? That’s Mr. Dan Cody, old sport.”
The name sounded faintly familiar.
“He’s dead now. He used to be my best friend years ago.”
There was a small picture of Gatsby, also in yachting costume, on the bureau—Gatsby with his head thrown back defiantly—taken apparently when he was about eighteen.
“I adore it,” exclaimed Daisy. “The pompadour! You never told me you had a pompadour—or a yacht.”
“Look at this,” said Gatsby quickly. “Here’s a lot of clippings—about you.”
They stood side by side examining