The Great Gatsby - Chapter Three | Full Audiobook - Chapter by Chapter

Welcome back to chapter by Chapter, the audio book experience. We're continuing The Great Gatsby by F Scott Fitzgerald. If this is your first time here, start from the beginning of this season and follow Nick Carraway's story from the very start. And if you've been with us since the beginning, welcome back. Things are about to get interesting. We've seen the world of East Egg. We've seen what lives in the shadows beneath it. Now we step inside the mansion that has been glowing across the water this whole time.

Follow the show so you never miss a chapter and drop a comment with the classic you want us to read next. Now sit back and let's continue the story. Chapter 3. Music drifted from my neighbor's house through the warm summer nights in his Azure gardens. Men and women flitted like moths amidst the whispers, the champagne and the stars. When the afternoon tide was high, I watched his guests diving from the tower of his raft or basking on the sands of his beach while his two motor boats sliced through the sound, towing aquaplanes over cascades of foam.

On weekends, his Rolls Royce transformed into a shuttle, ferrying partygoers to and from the city from 9:00 in the morning until well past midnight, while his station wagon darted about like a lively yellow insect meeting every train. And come Monday, 8 servants, including an extra gardener, labored all day with mops, scrubbing brushes, hammers and garden shears mending the havoc of the previous night. Every Friday, 5 crates of oranges and lemons arrived from a New York fruit vendor. By Monday, these same fruits departed his back door in a pyramid of juiceless halves.

In the kitchen, there was a machine capable of extracting the juice from 200 oranges in half an hour, provided a Butler pressed a button 200 times with his thumb. At least once every two weeks, a team of caterers descended with hundreds of feet of canvas and enough colored lights to transform Gatsby's vast garden into a Christmas Wonderland. Buffet tables adorned with glistening hors d'oeuvres were crowded with spiced baked hams nestled against salads of Harlequin patterns, pastry pigs and turkeys enchanted to a deep gold.

In the main hall a bar with a genuine brass rail was erected, stocked with gins, liquors and cordials so long forgotten that most of his female guests were too young to distinguish one from another. By 7:00 the orchestra had arrived, not a mere 5 piece ensemble, but a full pit of oboes, trombones, saxophones, vials, cornets, piccolos and both low and high drums. The last of the swimmers have returned from the beach and are now getting dressed upstairs. Cars from New York are stacked 5 deep in the driveway.

The halls, salons and verandas are already vibrant with bold colors, hair styled in novel ways, and shawls more extravagant than any dream of Castile. The bar is bustling and trays of cocktails float through the garden outside, filling the air with chatter and laughter, casual innuendos and introductions forgotten as soon as they're made, alongside enthusiastic encounters between women who never knew each other's names. As the earth turns away from the sun, the lights grow brighter and the orchestra plays lively cocktail music, raising the pitch of the voices.

Laughter flows more freely with each passing minute, spilling out with abandoned at the slightest cheerful word. Groups shift rapidly, swelling with new arrivals, dissolving and reforming in an instant. Already there are Wanderers, confident young women weaving through the crowd, momentarily becoming the center of attention, then exhilarated by their triumph, gliding on through the ever changing sea of faces, voices and colors under the shifting lights. Suddenly, one of these vibrant spirits, dressed in shimmering Opal, snatches a cocktail from the air, downs it for courage, and with hands moving like Frisco, dances alone on the canvas platform.

A brief hush falls. The orchestra leader adjusts his rhythm for her, and a burst of chatter follows as the mistaken rumor spreads that she is Gilda Gray's understudy from the Follies. The party is truly underway. I believe that on the first night I went to Gatsby's house, I was among the few guests who had actually been invited. People didn't wait for an invitation, they simply went. They climbed into their cars and drove out to Long Island, somehow finding themselves at Gatsby's doorstep. Once there, someone who knew Gatsby would introduce them, and from that point on they behaved as if they were in an amusement park.

Sometimes they came and went without ever meeting Gatsby, attending the party with a kind of innocent enthusiasm that served as their ticket in. I, however, had actually been invited. Early that Saturday morning, a chauffeur in a Robin's egg blue uniform crossed my lawn with a surprisingly formal note from his employer. Gatsby would be honored if I attended his little party that night. He mentioned having seen me several times and had meant to call on me earlier, but a peculiar set of circumstances had prevented it.

Signed Jay Gatsby in an elegant hand, dressed in white flannels. I headed over to his lawn a little after 7, feeling somewhat uneasy as I wandered through the swirling crowd of unfamiliar faces, though occasionally I spotted someone I recognized from the commuter train, I was immediately struck by the number of young Englishmen scattered about, all impeccably dressed, all looking slightly hungry, and all speaking in low, earnest tones to solid, prosperous Americans. I was convinced they were selling something bonds, insurance, or automobiles.

They seemed painfully aware of the easy money around them and believed it could be theirs with the just right words. Upon arrival, I tried to locate my host, but the few people I asked about his whereabouts looked at me with such astonishment and denied any knowledge of his movements so vehemently that I retreated to the cocktail table, the only spot in the garden where a solitary man could linger without appearing aimless and alone. I was on the verge of drowning my embarrassment in alcohol when Jordan Baker emerged from the house, poised at the top of the marble steps.

She leaned back slightly, surveying the garden with a mix of disdain and curiosity. Whether it was welcome or not, I felt compelled to latch onto someone before I started making overly friendly comments to strangers passing by. Hello. I shouted, moving toward her. My voice boomed unnaturally across the garden. I thought you might be here. She said absent mindedly as I approached. I remembered you lived next door to. She held my hand with a detached air as if promising to attend to me shortly, while she listened to 2 girls in matching yellow dresses who had paused at the bottom of the steps.

Hello. They exclaimed in unison. Sorry, you didn't win. They were referring to the golf tournament she had lost in the finals the previous week. You don't know who we are, said one of the girls in yellow. But we met you here about a month ago. You've dyed your hair since then, Jordan noted, and I was taken aback. But the girls had already moved on, and her comments seemed directed at the early moon, which appeared as if conjured from a caterer's basket, much like the supper. With Jordan's slender golden arm linked through mine, we descended the steps and strolled through the garden.

A tray of cocktails drifted toward us through the dimming light, and we settled at a table with two women dressed in yellow and three men, each introduced as Mr. Mumble. Do you come to these parties often? Jordan asked the woman next to her. The last one was when I met you. The woman replied with a bright, confident tone. She turned to her friend. Wasn't it the same for you, Lucille? It was indeed the same for Lucille. I enjoy coming, I never mind what I do, so I always have a good time. The last time I was here, I tore my dress on a chair and he asked for my name and address.

Within a week, I received a package from Croyeres with a new evening gown inside. Did you keep it? Jordan asked. Of course I did. I planned to wear it tonight, but it was too large in the bust and needed alterations. It was a gas blue with lavender beads, $265. There's something odd about a guy who'd do something like that. The other woman said eagerly. He doesn't want any trouble with anyone who doesn't. I asked Gatsby. Someone mentioned the 2 girls and Jordan lead in sharing secrets. Someone said they thought he once killed a man.

A shiver ran through us. The three Mr. Mumbles leaned forward, listening intently. I doubt that's it. Lucille said skeptically. It's more likely he was a German spy during the war. One of the men nodded, agreeing. I heard that from someone who knew him well, grew up with him in Germany. He confirmed confidently. Oh no. The first girl countered. That can't be right because he was in the American army during the war. As our belief shifted back to her, she leaned in with excitement. Watch him when he thinks no one's looking.

I'll bet he killed a man. She narrowed her eyes and shivered. Lucille shivered too. We all turned searching for Gatsby. It was a testament to the romantic mystery he evoked that whispers surrounded him from those who rarely found anything worth whispering about in this world. The first supper there would be another after midnight was being served, and Jordan invited me to join her group, gathered around a table on the other side of the garden. There were three married couples and Jordan's companion, a persistent undergraduate prone to aggressive innuendos, clearly under the impression that eventually Jordan would surrender herself to him in some capacity.

Rather than dispersing into chaos, this group maintained A dignified unity, taking on the role of representing the refined nobility of the area. East Egg looking down on West Egg, vigilantly guarding against its vibrant and unpredictable revelry. Let's get out. Jordan whispered. After a somehow squandered and I'll suited half hour. We stood up and she explained that we were going to find the host. I had never met him, she said, and it was making me uneasy. The undergraduate nodded with a cynical, melancholy air.

The bar where we first looked was crowded, but Gatsby was not there. She couldn't spot him from the top of the steps, and he wasn't on the veranda. On a whim, we tried an imposing door and entered a high Gothic library paneled with intricately carved English oak, likely transported in its entirety from some ancient ruin overseas. A stout middle-aged man with enormous owl eyed glasses sat somewhat drunkenly on the edge of a grand table, staring with unsteady focus at the shelves of books. As we entered, he turned excitedly and scrutinized Jordan from head to toe.

What do you think? He asked with sudden urgency. Think about what? He gestured toward the bookcases. About that, Actually, you don't need to check, I've already done it. They're real. The books? He nodded. Completely real. They have pages and everything. I assumed they'd be some sturdy cardboard, but no, they're genuinely real, pages and all. Here, let me show you. Assuming our disbelief. He hurried to the bookcases and returned with volume one of the Stoddard lectures. Look. He exclaimed with triumph.

It's an authentic piece of printed work. It even fooled me. This guys like a real Belasco. It's a masterpiece. Such thoroughness, such realism. He knew when to stop, too. He didn't even cut the pages. But what do you want? What do you expect? He grabbed the book from my hands and quickly returned it to its place on the shelf, muttering something about how if one brick were removed, the entire library might come crashing down. Who brought you here? Or did you just show up on your own? I was brought.

Most people were brought. Jordan looked at him with a bright, attentive expression, but didn't reply. I was brought by a woman named Roosevelt. Misses Claude Roosevelt. Do you know her? I met her somewhere last night. I've been drunk for about a week, and I thought sitting in a library might help sober me up. Has it worked? I think so, a little, I think. It's hard to say. I've only been here an hour. Did I mention the books? They're real. They're. You mentioned it. We shook hands with him solemnly and stepped back.

Outside in the garden, there was dancing on the canvas, old men awkwardly guiding young girls in endless graceless circles, while more refined couples held each other in torturous, fashionable poses, sticking to the corners, and a multitude of single girls danced alone or took over for a moment, sparing the orchestra the effort of the banjo. Rizzo drums. By midnight, the laughter had reached a fever pitch. A renowned tenor had delivered an Aria in Italian, while a famous control toe had belted out a jazz number.

Between these performances, guests were scattered throughout the garden performing impromptu acts, their joyous empty laughter rising into the warm summer night. Two stage twins, who turned out to be the girls in yellow, performed A comedic baby routine in costume, and champagne flowed freely in glasses larger than finger bowls. The moon climbed higher, casting a shimmering triangle of silver on the sound, quivering slightly to the sharp metallic strum of banjos. On the lawn, I remained with Jordan Baker.

We were seated at a table with a man around my age and a lively young woman who erupted into fits of uncontrollable laughter at the slightest provocation. I was truly enjoying myself now. After two generous glasses of champagne, the scene transformed before me into something meaningful, elemental and profound. During a pause in the festivities, the man turned to me with a smile. Your face looks familiar, He remarked politely. Weren't you in the First Division during the war? Yes, indeed. I served in the 28th Infantry.

I was with the 16th until June of 1918. I knew I'd seen you somewhere before. We chatted briefly about some damp grey little villages in France. It seemed he lived nearby as he mentioned he just bought a hydroplane and planned to test it out in the morning. Care to join me, old sport? Just a quick trip along the shore by the Sound. What time? Whenever suits you best. I was about to ask his name when Jordan turned and smiled. Enjoying yourself now? She asked. Much better. I turned back to my new acquaintance.

This is quite an unusual party for me. I haven't even met the host. I live over there. I gestured toward the unseen hedge in the distance, and this man, Gatsby, sent his chauffeur over with an invitation. For a moment he looked at me as if he didn't quite understand. I'm Gatsby, he said suddenly. What? I exclaimed. Oh, I apologize, I thought you knew, old sport. I'm afraid I'm not the best host. He smiled with a depth that went beyond mere understanding. It was one of those rare smiles that offered a sense of eternal reassurance, the kind you might encounter only a handful of times in your life.

For a fleeting moment, it seemed to embrace the entire eternal world, then focused on you with an undeniable bias in your favor. It grasped you just as much as you wished to be understood, believed in you as you wished to believe in yourself, and confirmed that it held exactly the impression of you that at your best, you hoped to project. Just then, the smile disappeared, and I found myself looking at a refined young man, perhaps in his early 30s, whose overly formal speech bordered on the absurd.

Even before he introduced himself, I sensed he was choosing his words with deliberate care. Almost as soon as Mr. Gatsby revealed his identity, a Butler approached him with the news that Chicago was on the line. He excused himself with a slight bow that included each of us. If you need anything, just ask for it, old sport. Excuse me, I'll be back shortly. Once he left, I turned to Jordan, compelled to express my surprise. I had imagined Mr. Gatsby to be a flamboyant, hefty man in his middle years.

Who is he? I asked. Do you know he's just a man named Gatsby? Where is he from them, And what does he do now You're getting into it, She replied with a faint smile. Well, he once told me he was an Oxford man. A vague image began to form in my mind, but her next words dispelled it. However, I don't believe it. Why not? I don't know, she insisted. I just don't think he went there. Her tone reminded me of the other girl's comment. I think he killed a man, Which only piqued my curiosity further. I would have readily accepted that Gatsby emerged from the swamps of Louisiana or the Lower East Side of New York.

That made sense. But young men didn't, at least in my limited experience. I believed they didn't casually appear out of nowhere and purchase a mansion on Long Island Sound. Anyway, he throws big parties, Jordan said, steering the conversation away with a sophisticated aversion to specifics. I enjoy large parties. They're so intimate. At smaller gatherings, there's no privacy. A bass drum boomed, and the orchestra leader's voice suddenly rose above the garden's chatter. Ladies and gentlemen, at Mr. Gatsby's request, we're going to play Mr. Vladimir Tostoff's latest piece, which caused quite a stir at Carnegie Hall last May.

If you follow the news, you know it was a big sensation. He smiled with a jovial air of superiority and added some sensation, prompting laughter from the crowd. The piece is called, he concluded with gusto, Vladimir Tostoff's Jazz History of the World. I couldn't grasp the essence of Mr. Tostoff's composition because just as it began, my gaze landed at Gatsby. He stood alone on the marble steps, surveying the groups with approving eyes. His tanned skin was taut and appealing, and his short hair seemed freshly trimmed.

There was nothing sinister about him. I wondered if his abstinence from alcohol set him apart from his guests as he appeared more composed while the camaraderie around him grew Wilder. When the jazz history of the world ended, girls were resting their heads on men's shoulders in a playful, friendly manner, swooning backward into arms, confident someone would catch them. But no one swooned toward Gatsby. No bobbed hair brushed his shoulder, and no singing quartets included him as a link. I beg your pardon?

Gatsby's Butler appeared beside us with a quiet urgency. Miss Baker? He asked. Excuse me, but Mr. Gatsby would like to have a word with you. Alone with me. She responded, clearly taken aback. Yes, Madam. She rose slowly, her eyebrows arching in surprise as she glanced at me, then followed the Butler toward the house. I couldn't help but notice how she wore her evening gown with the same ease as sportswear. There was a buoyancy in her step, as if she had learned to walk on the fresh, manicured greens of a golf course.

Left alone, I realized it was nearly two in the morning. From a long window lined room that overlooked the terrace, a mix of confusing and intriguing sounds drifted in. Dodging Jordans college aged companion who was deep in a rather awkward conversation with two chorus girls and urging me to join him, I made my way inside. The room was bustling with people. One of the girls dressed in yellow was at the piano while next to her a tall red headed woman from a renowned chorus was singing. She had consumed a fair amount of champagne and mid song had come to the clumsy conclusion that everything was profoundly sad.

Her performance was not just vocal, she was crying as well. Each pause in the music was filled with her gasping, fragmented sobs before she resumed singing in a trembling soprano. Tears streamed down her face, but not without resistance. As they met her heavily beaded lashes, they turned inky, trailing down her cheeks in slow dark streams. A playful suggestion was made that she sing the expressions on her face which prompted her to throw up her hands, collapse into a chair and drift into a deep wine induced slumber.

She had a fight with a man claiming to be her husband. A girl beside me explained. I glanced around. Most of the remaining women were now embroiled in arguments with men purported to be their husbands. Even Jordan's group, the quartet from East Egg, was torn apart by discord. One of the men was speaking with peculiar intensity to a young actress, while his wife, after trying to laugh off the situation with a facade of dignity and indifference, completely lost her composure and resorted to sudden strategic confrontations.

She would appear abruptly at his side, like an irate jewel, hissing. You promised into his ear. The reluctance to leave wasn't limited to the unruly men. The hallway was currently occupied by two regrettably sober men and their highly indignant wives. The wives were commiserating with each other in slightly elevated tones. Whenever he sees I'm enjoying myself, he wants to leave. I've never heard anything so selfish in my life. We're always the first ones to go. So are we. Looks like we're nearly the last ones here, one of the men admitted with a sheepish grin.

The orchestra packed up and left half an hour ago, despite the wives insisting that such behavior was beyond belief. The argument ended with a brief scuffle, and both wives were carried off, kicking into the night. As I waited for my hat in the hallway, the library door swung open and Jordan Baker emerged with Gatsby. He was murmuring a final word to her, but his eager demeanor shifted to a more formal air as several guests approached him to bid him farewell. Jordan's group was calling to her impatiently from the porch, but she paused for a moment to shake my hand.

I just heard the most incredible thing. How long were we in there? About an hour, I think. It was simply incredible. She repeated, lost in thought. But I promised I wouldn't tell. And here I am teasing you. She yawned elegantly in my face. Please come visit me. Look in the phone book under Mrs. Sigourney Howard, my aunt. She was already moving away as she spoke. Her brown hand gave a jaunty wave as she blended back into her group at the door. Feeling a bit embarrassed for staying so late on my first visit, I joined the remaining guests gathered around Gatsby.

I wanted to explain that I had been searching for him earlier in the evening and to apologize for not recognizing him in the garden. Don't worry about it, he insisted eagerly. Forget it, old sport. The familiar phrase felt as foreign as the hand that reassuringly touched my shoulder. And remember, we're taking the hydroplane out tomorrow morning at 9:00. Then the Butler just behind him announced. Philadelphia's on the line for you, Sir. OK, in a minute. Tell them I'll be right there. Good night, good night, good night.

He smiled, and suddenly it felt significant to be among the last to leave, as if he had wanted it that way all along. Good night, old sport, good night. But as I descended the steps, I realized the night wasn't quite over. 50 feet from the door, a dozen headlights illuminated a strange and chaotic scene. In the ditch beside the road, upright but missing a wheel, sat a new coupe that had left Gatsby's drive just moments before. The sharp edge of a wall had caused the wheel to detach, now drawing the attention of half a dozen curious chauffeurs.

Since they had left their cars blocking the road, a harsh, discordant noise from those stuck behind had been echoing for some time, adding to the already chaotic scene. A man in a long coat had climbed out of the wreck and now stood in the middle of the road, glancing from the car to the tire and then to the onlookers with a pleasant puzzled expression. Look. He exclaimed. It ended up in the ditch. The situation seemed endlessly surprising to him, and I first noticed his unusual sense of wonder, then recognized the man.

It was the former admirer of Gatsby's library. How did it happen? He shrugged. I don't know anything about mechanics. He stated firmly. But how did it happen? Did you hit the wall? Don't ask me. He distanced himself from the whole situation. I know very little about driving. Almost nothing. It happened, and that's all I know. Well, if you're not a good driver, you shouldn't be driving at night. But I wasn't even trying. He protested indignantly. I wasn't even trying. An odd silence fell above the bystanders.

Are you trying to get yourself killed? You're lucky it was just a wheel, a bad driver and not even trying. You don't get it, the accused said. I wasn't the one driving. There was another guy in the car. This revelation sent a ripple of shock through the crowd, now gathered around as a collective Ah escaped them. The coupe's door creaked open slowly, prompting everyone to step back instinctively. As the door swung fully open, an eerie silence settled over the scene. Then, piece by piece, a pale, disheveled figure emerged from the wreckage, gingerly feeling the ground with an oversized, awkward dancing shoe.

Momentarily blinded by the harsh glare of the headlights and disoriented by the relentless blaring of horns, the figures swayed unsteadily before noticing the man in the duster coat. What's the problem? He asked with surprising calm. Did we run out of gas? Look. Several fingers pointed toward the detached wheel. He gazed at it briefly, then glanced upward as if it had fallen from the sky. It came off. Someone clarified. He nodded in acknowledgement. At first I didn't even realize we'd stopped. A pause followed.

Taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, he spoke with resolve. Could you tell me where I might find a gas station? A dozen men, some slightly better off than he, informed him that the wheel and car were no longer physically connected. Try backing out, he suggested after a pause. Put it in reverse, but the wheels off. He hesitated. There's no harm in trying. The blaring horns reached a fever pitch and I turned away, cutting across the lawn towards home. I glanced back once, A sliver of moon hungover Gatsby's house, casting the night in its familiar elegance, outlasting the laughter and the sounds from his still vibrant garden.

A sudden emptiness seemed to emanate from the windows and grand doors, isolating the host, who stood on the porch with his hand raised in a formal farewell. Reflecting on what I've written so far, I realize I may have given the impression that the events of three nights spaced weeks apart were my sole focus. In truth, they were just incidental moments in a bustling summer, and until much later they occupied my thoughts far less than my personal concerns. Most of the time I was working in the early morning, the sun cast my shadow westward as I hurried through the white canyons of lower New York to the Probity Trust.

I knew the other clerks and young bond salesman by their first names, and we often lunch together in din bustling restaurants over plates of little pig sausages, mashed potatoes, and coffee. I even had a brief romance with a girl from Jersey City who worked through me and the department, but her brothers started giving me hostile looks, so when she went on vacation in July, I let the relationship quietly fade. I usually had dinner at the Yale Club, though for some reason it was the most dismal part of my day.

And then I would head upstairs to the library to diligently study investments and securities for an hour. There were often a few rowdy types around, but they never ventured into the library, making it an ideal place to focus. Afterward, if the night was pleasant, I would stroll down Madison Ave., past the old Murray Hill Hotel and over 30 3rd St. to Pennsylvania Station. I began to develop a fondness for New York, with its vibrant, adventurous energy at night and the satisfaction that the ceaseless movement of people and machines provided to my restless eyes.

I enjoyed walking up 5th Ave., picking out intriguing women from the crowd and imagining that in a few moments I would step into their lives unnoticed and without judgement in my mind. I sometimes followed them to their apartments on secluded St. corners, where they would turn and smile at me before disappearing through a door into a warm, inviting darkness. During the magical twilight of the city, I occasionally felt a haunting loneliness, sensing it in others too. Young clerks lingering in front of shop windows, waiting for the time to pass until their solitary dinner in a restaurant.

Young clerks in the dusk, squandering the most poignant moments of night and life. Again at 8:00, when the dark streets of the 40s were lined 5 deep with pulsing taxi cabs headed for the theater district, I felt a heaviness in my heart. Shapes huddled together in the taxis as they waited, voices rising and song, laughter spilling from jokes unheard while glowing cigarettes traced indecipherable patterns in the air. Imagining myself rushing towards their joy, sharing in their intimate thrill, I silently wished them well.

For a time, Jordan Baker slipped from my view, but by Midsummer I found her again. Initially, I was flattered to be seen with her. She was a golf champion, her name widely recognized. But soon it became more than that. I wasn't truly in love, but I felt a gentle curiosity, The bored, aloof expression she showed the world hid something deeper. Most pretenses do eventually, even if they don't at first. And one day I discovered what it was during a house party in Warwick. She left a borrowed car out in the rain with the top down, then lied about it.

And suddenly I recalled the elusive story from that night at Daisy's. At her first major golf tournament. There had been a commotion that nearly made the papers, a hint that she had moved her ball from a bad spot during the semi final round. It nearly became a scandal but then faded away. A caddy withdrew his statement and the only other witness conceded he might have been mistaken. The incident and her name had stayed LinkedIn my mind. Jordan Baker instinctively steered clear of clever, perceptive men, and now I understood why she felt safer.

In a world where any deviation from the norm seemed unthinkable, She was irredeemably dishonest. She couldn't stand being at a disadvantage, and because of this aversion, I suspect she started weaving little deceits from a young age to maintain that cool, defiant smile she showed the world while meeting the demands of her bold, lively presence. It didn't bother me much. Dishonesty in a woman is something you never hold against her too deeply. I felt a fleeting regret, and then it slipped my mind.

During that same house party, we had an odd conversation about driving. It began when she drove so close to some workmen that our car's Fender brushed a button on one man's coat. You're a terrible driver. You should either be more careful or not drive at all. I am careful. No, you're not. Well, other people are. She replied with a lightness. What does that have to do with anything? They'll stay out of my way. It takes 2 to cause an accident. What if you meet someone just as careless as you? I hope I never do, she responded.

I despise careless people. That's why I like you. Her eyes, Gray and weary from the sun, looked straight ahead. Yet she had intentionally altered the dynamics between us. For a fleeting moment, I thought I loved her. But I am deliberate in my thoughts, governed by internal rules that restrain my impulses. I knew I needed to extricate myself from the complicated situation back home first. I had been sending letters weekly, signing them with Love Nick, and all I could picture was how when that particular girl played tennis, a faint Sheen of sweat would form on her upper lip.

Still, there was an unspoken agreement that needed to be gently dissolved before I could be truly free. Everyone believes they possess at least one of the cardinal virtues, and mine is this. I am one of the few honest people I have ever known. And that brings us to the close of Chapter 3 of The Great Gatsby by F Scott Fitzgerald. In this chapter, we finally stepped inside the mansion. The parties are enormous, the champagne flows freely, and the guests arrive uninvited and leave in wrecked cars.

And yet at the center of all of it stands Gatsby himself, composed, sober, watching from the marble steps, never quite part of the world he created. We finally meet him face to face, and he is nothing like what we imagined. Charming, deliberate, almost too polished. A man who calls everyone old sport and smiles like he's known you his whole life. We also learn a little more about Jordan Baker, Beautiful, careless, and not quite as honest as she appears and neck watching. All of it is starting to get pulled in deeper than he planned.

The mystery of Gatsby is just beginning to unravel. Thank you for listening to chapter by chapter the audio book experience. If this story has its hooks in you, follow the show so the next chapter finds you automatically. Like this episode and drop a comment with the classic you want us to read next. Your suggestion could become our next season. The next chapter is already waiting for you.

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