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 it. I was going to ask to see the rubies when the phone rang, and Gatsby took up the receiver.