eir 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 th