‘‘These things excite me SO，” she whispered. “Ifyou want to kiss me any time during the evening，Nick， just let me know and I’ll be glad to arrange for you. Just mention my name. Or present a greencard. I’m giving out green—”
‘‘Look around，” suggested Gatsby.
‘‘I’m looking around. I’m having a marvelous—”
‘‘You must see the faces of many people you’veheard about.”
Tom’s arrogant eyes roamed the crowd.
‘‘We don’t go around very much，” he said. “In factI was just thinking I don’t know a soul here.”
“Perhaps you know that lady.” Gatsby indicateda gorgeous， scarcely human orchid of a woman
who sat in state under a white plum tree. Tom andDaisy stared， with that peculiarly unreal feeling thataccompanies the recognition of a hither to ghostlycelebrity of the movies.
‘‘She’s lovely，” said Daisy.
‘‘The man bending over her is her director.”
He took them ceremoniously from group to group：
“Mrs. Buchanan… and Mr. Buchanan—” After aninstant’s hesitation he added： “the polo player.”
“Oh no，” objected Tom quickly， “Not me.”
But evidently the sound of it pleased Gatsby forTom remained “the polo player” for the rest of theevening.
‘‘I’ve never met so many celebrities！” Daisyexclaimed. “I liked that man—what was his name？—with the sort of blue nose.”
Gatsby identified him， adding that he was a smallproducer.
‘‘Well， I liked him anyhow.”
“I’d a little rather not be the polo player，” saidTom pleasantly， “I’d rather look at all these famouspeople in—inoblivion.”
Daisy and Gatsby danced. I remember being surprised by his graceful， conservative fox-trot—Ihad never seen him dance before. Then they sauntered over to my house and sat on the stepsfor half an hour while at her request I remainedwatchfully in the garden： “In case there’s a fire or aflood，” she explained， “or any act of God.”
Tom appeared from his oblivion as we were sitting down to supper together. “Do you mind if eat with some people over here？” he said. “A fellow’sgetting off some funny stuff.”
“Go ahead，” answered Daisy genially， “And if youwant to take down any addresses here’s my littlegold pencil….” She looked around after a momentand told me the girl was ‘‘common but pretty，” and knew that except for the half hour she’d been alonewith Gatsby she wasn’t having a good time.
We were at a particularly tipsy table. That was myfault—Gatsby had been called to the phone and I’denjoyed these same people only two weeks before.
But what had amused me then turned septic on theair now.
“How do you feel， Miss Baedeker？”
The girl addressed was trying， unsuccessfully， toslump against my shoulder. At this inquiry she satup and opened her eyes.
“Wha？”
A massive and lethargic woman， who had been urging Daisy to play golf with her at the local clubtomorrow， spoke in Miss Baedeker’s defence：
“Oh， she’s all right now. When she’s had five orsix cock-tails she always starts screaming like that. tell her she ought to leave it alone.”
“I do leave it alone，” affirmed the accusedhollowly.
“We heard you yelling， so I said to Doc Civethere： ‘There’s somebody that needs your help，Doc.’”
“She’s much obliged， I’m sure，” said anotherfriend， without gratitude. “But you got her dress allwet when you stuck her head in the pool.”
“Anything I hate is to get my head stuck in apool，” mumbled Miss Baedeker. “They almost
drowned me once over in New Jersey.”
“Then you ought to leave it alone，” counteredDoctor Civet.
“Speak for yourself ！” cried Miss Baedeker violently. “Your hand shakes. I wouldn’t let youoperate on me！”
It was like that. Almost the last thing I rememberwas standing with Daisy and watching the movingpicture director and his Star. They were still underthe white plum tree and their faces were touchingexcept for a pale thin ray of moonlight between.
It occurred to me that he had been very slowlybending toward her all evening to attain thisproximity， and even while I watched I saw himstoop one ultimate degree and kiss at her cheek.
“I like her，” said Daisy， “I think she’s lovely.”
But the rest offended her—and inarguably，
because it wasn’t a gesture but an emotion. She wasappalled by West Egg， this unprecedented “place”
that Broadway had begotten upon a Long Islandfishing village—appalled by its raw vigor that chafedunder the old euphemisms and by the too obtrusivefate that herded its inhabitants along a short cutfrom nothing to nothing. She saw something awfulin the very simplicity she failed to understand.
I sat on the front steps with them while theywaited for their car. It was dark here in front： onlythe bright door sent ten square feet of light volleyingout into the soft black morning. Sometimes shadow moved against a dressing-room blindabove， gave way to another shadow， an indefiniteprocession of shadows， who rouged and powderedin an invisible glass.
“Who is this Gatsby anyhow？” demanded Tom suddenly. “Some big boot legger？”
“Where’d you hear that？” I inquired.
“I didn’t hear it. I imagined it. A lot of these newlyrich people are just big boot leggers， you know.”
“Not Gatsby，” I said shortly.
He was silent for a moment. The pebbles of thedrive crunched under his feet.
“Well， he certainly must have strained himself toget this menagerie together.”
A breeze stirred the grey haze of Daisy’s fur collar.
