"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 an instant's hesitation he added: "the polo player."
"Oh, no," objected Tom quickly, "not me."
But evidently the sound of it pleased Gatsby, for Tom remained "the polo player" for the rest of the evening.
"I've never met so many celebrities," Daisy exclaimed. "I liked that man—what was his name?—with the sort of blue nose."
Gatsby identified him, adding that he was a small producer.
"Well, I liked him anyhow."
"I'd a little rather not be the polo player," said Tom pleasantly, "I'd rather look at all these famous people in—in oblivion."
Daisy and Gatsby danced. I remember being surprised by his graceful, conservative fox-trot—I had never seen him dance before. Then they sauntered over to my house and sat on the steps for half an hour, while at her request I remained watchfully in the garden. "In case there's a fire or a flood," she explained, "or any act of God."
Tom appeared from his oblivion as we were sitting down to supper together. "Do you mind if I eat with some people over here?" he said. "A fellow's getting off some funny stuff."
"Go ahead," answered Daisy genially, "and if you want to take down any addresses here's my little gold pencil." . . . She looked around after a moment and told me the girl was "common but pretty," and I knew that except for the half-hour she'd been alone with Gatsby she wasn't having a good time.
We were at a particularly tipsy table. That was my fault—Gatsby had been called to the phone, and I'd enjoyed these same people only two weeks before. But what had amused me then turned septic on the air now.
"How do you feel, Miss Baedeker?"
