“You did it， Tom，” she said accusingly. “I know youdidn’t mean to but you DID do it. That’s what I getfor marrying a brute of a man， a great big hulkingphysical specimen of a—”
‘‘I hate that word hulking，” objected Tom crossly，“even in kidding.”
‘‘Hulking，” insisted Daisy.
Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once，
unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequencethat was never quite chatter， that was as cool astheir white dresses and their impersonal eyes in theabsence of all desire. They were here—and theyaccepted Tom and me， making only a polite pleasanteffort to entertain or to be entertained. They knewthat presently dinner would be over and a littlelater the evening too would be over and casually putaway. It was sharply different from the West wherean evening was hurried from phase to phase towardits close in a continually disappointed anticipationor else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself.
“You make me feel uncivilized， Daisy，” I confessedon my second glass of corky but rather impressiveclaret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something？”
I meant nothing in particular by this remark butit wastaken up in an unexpected way.
“Civilization’s going to pieces，” broke out Tomviolently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimistabout things. Have you read ‘The Rise of theColoured Empires’ by this man Goddard？”
“Why， no，” I answered， rather surprised by histone.
“Well， it’s a fine book， and everybody ought toread it. The idea is if we don’t look out the whiterace will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s allscientific stuff； it’s been proved.”
“Tom’s getting very profound，” said Daisy with anexpression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deepbooks with long words in them. What was that
word we—”
“Well， these books are all scientific，” insistedTom， glancing at her impatiently. “This fellow hasworked out the whole thing. It’s up to us who arethe dominant race to watch out or these other raceswill have control of things.”
“We’ve got to beat them down，” whispered Daisy，winking ferociously toward the fervent sun.
“You ought to live in California—” began MissBaker but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavilyin his chair.
“This idea is that we’re Nordics. I am， and you areand you are and—” After an infinitesimal hesitationhe included Daisy with a slight nod and she winkedat me again. “—and we’ve produced all the thingsthat go to make civilization—oh， science and artand all that. Do you see？”
There was something pathetic in his concentrationas if his complacency， more acute than of old，was not enough to him any more. When， almost
immediately， the telephone rang inside and thebutler left the porch Daisy seized upon the
momentary interruption and leaned toward me.
“I’ll tell you a family secret，” she whisperedenthusiastically. “It’s about the butler’s nose. Doyou want to hear about the butler’s nose？”
“That’s why I came over tonight.”
“Well， he wasn’t always a butler； he used to be thesilver polisher for some people in New York thathad a silver service for two hundred people. He hadto polish it from morning till night until finally began to affect his nose—”
‘‘Things went from bad to worse，” suggested MissBaker.
“Yes. Things went from bad to worse until finallyhe had to give up his position.”
For a moment the last sunshine fell with
romantic affection upon her glowing face； her voicecompelled me forward breathlessly as I listened—then the glow faded， each light deserting her withlingering regret like children leaving a pleasantstreet at dusk.
The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom’s ear whereupon Tom frowned， pushedback his chair and without a word went inside. As ifhis absence quickened something within her Daisyleaned forward again， her voice glowing and singing.
“I love to see you at my table， Nick. You remindme of a—of a rose， an absolute rose. Doesn’t he？”
She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation. “Anabsolute rose？”
This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose.
She was only extemporizing but a stirring warmthflowed from her as if her heart was trying to comeout to you concealed in one of those breathless，thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her
napkin on the table and excused herself and wentinto the house.
Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance
consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speakwhen she sat up alertly and said “Sh！” in a warningvoice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audiblein the room beyond and Miss Baker leaned forward，unashamed， trying to hear. The murmur trembledon the verge of coherence， sank down，mounted excitedly， and then ceased altogether.
“This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbor—”
I said.
“Don’t talk. I want to hear what happens.”
“Is something happening？” I inquired innocently.
“You mean to say you don’t know？” said MissBaker， honestly surprised. “I thought everybodyknew.”
“I don’t.”
“Why—” she said hesitantly， “Tom’s got somewoman in New York.”
“Got some woman？” I repeated blankly.
Miss Baker nodded.
“She might have the decency not to telephonehim at dinner-time. Don’t you think？”
Almost before I had grasped her meaning therewas the flutter of a dress and the crunch of leatherboots and Tom and Daisy were back at the table.
“It couldn’t be helped！” cried Daisy with tensegayety.
She sat down， glanced searchingly at Miss Bakerand then at me and continued： “I looked outdoorsfor a minute and it’s very romantic outdoors.
There’s a bird on the lawn that I think must be nightingale come over on the Cunard or White StarLine. He’s singing away—” her voice sang “—It’sromantic， isn’t it， Tom？”
“Very romantic，” he said， and then miserably tome： “If it’s light enough after dinner I want to takeyou down to the stables.”
