‘Hot!’ said the conductor to familiar faces. ‘Some weather!… Hot!… Hot!… Hot!… Is it hot enough for you? Is it hot? Is it…?’
My commutation ticket came back to me with a dark stain from his hand. That anyone should care in this heat whose flushed lips he kissed, whose head made damp the pyjama pocket over his heart!
…Through the hall of the Buchanans’ house blew a faint wind, carrying the sound of the telephone bell out to Gatsby and me as we waited at the door.
‘The master’s body!’ roared the butler into the mouthpiece. ‘I’m sorry, Madame, but we can’t furnish it – it’s far too hot to touch this noon!’
What he really said was: ‘Yes… Yes… I’ll see.’
He set down the receiver and came toward us, glistening slightly, to take our stiff straw hats.
‘Madame expects you in the salon!’ he cried, needlessly indicating the direction. In this heat every extra gesture was an affront to the common store of life.
The room, shadowed well with awnings, was dark and cool. Daisy and Jordan lay upon an enormous couch, like silver idols weighing down their own white dresses against the singing breeze of the fans.
‘We can’t move,’ they said together.
Jordan’s fingers, powdered white over their tan, rested for a moment in mine.
‘And Mr. Thomas Buchanan, the athlete?’ I inquired.
Simultaneously I heard his voice, gruff, muffled, husky, at the hall telephone.
Gatsby stood in the centre of the crimson carpet and gazed around with fascinated eyes. Daisy watched him and laughed, her sweet, exciting laugh; a tiny gust of powder rose from her bosom into the air.
‘The rumour is,’ whispered Jordan, ‘that that’s Tom’s girl on the telephone.’
We were silent. The voice in the hall rose high with annoyance: ‘Very well, then, I won’t sell you the car at all… I’m under no obligations to you at all… and as for your bothering me about it at lunch time, I won’t stand that at all!’
‘Holding down the receiver,’ said Daisy cynically.
‘No, he’s not,’ I assured her. ‘It’s a bona-fide deal. I happen to know about it.’
Tom flung open the door, blocked out its space for a moment with his thick body, and hurried into the room.
‘Mr. Gatsby!’ He put out his broad, flat hand with well-concealed dislike. ‘I’m glad to see you, sir. Nick…’
‘Make us a cold drink,’ cried Daisy.
As he left the room again she got up and went over to Gatsby and pulled his face down, kissing him on the mouth.
‘You know I love you,’ she murmured.
‘You forget there’s a lady present,’ said Jordan.
Daisy looked around doubtfully.
‘You kiss Nick too.’
‘What a low, vulgar girl!’
‘I don’t care!’ cried Daisy, and began to clog on the brick fireplace. Then she remembered the heat and sat down guiltily on the couch just as a freshly laundered nurse leading a little girl came into the room.
‘Bles-sed pre-cious,’ she crooned, holding out her arms. ‘Come to your own mother that loves you.’
The child, relinquished by the nurse, rushed across the room and rooted shyly into her mother’s dress.
‘The bles-sed pre-cious! Did mother get powder on your old yellowy hair? Stand up now, and say – How-de-do.’
Gatsby and I in turn leaned down and took the small reluctant hand. Afterward he kept looking at the child with surprise. I don’t think he had ever really believed in its existence before.
‘I got dressed before luncheon,’ said the child, turning eagerly to Daisy.
‘That’s because your mother wanted to show you off.’ Her face bent into the single wrinkle of the small white neck. ‘You dream, you. You absolute little dream.’
‘Yes,’ admitted the child calmly. ‘Aunt Jordan’s got on a white dress too.’
‘How do you like mother’s friends?’ Daisy turned her around so that she faced Gatsby. ‘Do you think they’re pretty?’
‘Where’s Daddy?’
‘She doesn’t look like her father,’ explained Daisy. ‘She looks like me. She’s got my hair and shape of the face.’
Daisy sat back upon the couch. The nurse took a step forward and held out her hand.
‘Come, Pammy.’
‘Good-bye, sweetheart!’
With a reluctant backward glance the well-disciplined child held to her nurse’s hand and was pulled out the door, just as Tom came back, preceding four gin rickeys that clicked full of ice. Gatsby took up his drink.
‘They certainly look cool,’ he said, with visible tension.
We drank in long, greedy swallows.
‘I read somewhere that the sun’s getting hotter every year,’ said Tom genially. ‘It seems that pretty soon the earth’s going to fall into the sun – or wait a minute – it’s just the opposite – the sun’s getting colder every year.’
‘Come outside,’ he suggested to Gatsby, ‘I’d like you to have a look at the place.’
I went with them out to the veranda. On the green Sound, stagnant in the heat, one small sail crawled slowly toward the fresher sea. Gatsby’s eyes followed it momentarily; he raised his hand and pointed across the bay.
‘I’m right across from you.’
‘So you are.’
Our eyes lifted over the rose-beds and the hot lawn and the weedy refuse of the dog-days alongshore. Slowly the white wings of the boat moved against the blue cool limit of the sky. Ahead lay the scalloped ocean and the abounding blessed isles.
‘There’s sport for you,’ said Tom, nodding. ‘I’d like to be out there with him for about an hour.’
We had luncheon in the dining-room, darkened too against the heat, and drank down nervous gaiety with the cold ale.
‘What’ll we do with ourselves this afternoon?’ cried Daisy, ‘and the day after that, and the next thirty years?’
‘Don’t be morbid,’ Jordan said. ‘Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.’
‘But it’s so hot,’ insisted Daisy, on the verge of tears, ‘and everything’s so confused. Let’s all go to town!’
Her voice struggled on through the heat, beating against it, moulding its senselessness into forms.
‘I’ve heard of making a garage out of a stable,’ Tom was saying to Gatsby, ‘but I’m the first man who ever made a stable out of a garage.’
‘Who wants to go to town?’ demanded Daisy insistently. Gatsby’s eyes floated toward her. ‘Ah,’ she cried, ‘you look so cool.’
Their eyes met, and they stared together at each other, alone in space. With an effort she glanced down at the table.
‘You always look so cool,’ she repeated.
She had told him that she loved him, and Tom Buchanan saw. He was astounded. His mouth opened a little, and he looked at Gatsby, and then back at Daisy as if he had just recognized her as someone he knew a long time ago.
‘You resemble the advertisement of the man,’ she went on innocently. ‘You know the advertisement of the man —’
‘All right,’ broke in Tom quickly, ‘I’m