The Great Gatsby

“She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner time.
Don’t you think?”

Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a
dress and the crunch of leather boots, and Tom and Daisy were back at
the table.

“It couldn’t be helped!” cried Daisy with tense gaiety.

She sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me, and
continued: “I looked outdoors for a minute, and it’s very romantic
outdoors. There’s a bird on the lawn that I think must be a
nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He’s singing
away—” Her voice sang: “It’s romantic, isn’t it, Tom?”

“Very romantic,” he said, and then miserably to me: “If it’s light
enough after dinner, I want to take you down to the stables.”

The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Daisy shook her head
decisively at Tom the subject of the stables, in fact all subjects,
vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes
at table I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly, and I
was conscious of wanting to look squarely at everyone, and yet to
avoid all eyes. I couldn’t guess what Daisy and Tom were thinking, but
I doubt if even Miss Baker, who seemed to have mastered a certain