The Great Gatsby

from the Park. Daisy went to the mirror and stood with her back to us,
fixing her hair.

“It’s a swell suite,” whispered Jordan respectfully, and everyone
laughed.

“Open another window,” commanded Daisy, without turning around.

“There aren’t any more.”

“Well, we’d better telephone for an axe—”

“The thing to do is to forget about the heat,” said Tom impatiently.
“You make it ten times worse by crabbing about it.”

He unrolled the bottle of whisky from the towel and put it on the
table.

“Why not let her alone, old sport?” remarked Gatsby. “You’re the one
that wanted to come to town.”

There was a moment of silence. The telephone book slipped from its
nail and splashed to the floor, whereupon Jordan whispered, “Excuse
me”—but this time no one laughed.

“I’ll pick it up,” I offered.

“I’ve got it.” Gatsby examined the parted string, muttered “Hum!” in
an interested way, and tossed the book on a chair.

“That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?” said Tom sharply.

“What is?”

“All this ‘old sport’ business. Where’d you pick that up?”

“Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if
you’re going to make personal remarks I won’t stay here a minute.