The telephone rang inside， startlingly， and asDaisy shook her head decisively at Tom the subjectof the stables， in fact all subjects， vanished intoair. Among the broken fragments of the last fiveminutes at table I remember the candles being litagain， pointlessly， and I was conscious of wanting tolook squarely at every one and yet to avoid all eyes.
I couldn’t guess what Daisy and Tom were thinkingbut I doubt if even Miss Baker who seemed to havemastered a certain hardy skepticism was able utterlyto put this fifth guest’s shrill metallic urgency out ofmind. To a certain temperament the situation mighthave seemed intriguing—my own instinct was totelephone immediately for the police.
The horses， needless to say， were not mentionedagain. Tom and Miss Baker， with several feet oftwilight between them strolled back into the library，as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body， whiletrying to look pleasantly interested and a littledeaf I followed Daisy around a chain of connectingverandas to the porch in front. In its deep gloom wesat down side by side on a wicker settee.
Daisy took her face in her hands， as if feelingits lovely shape， and her eyes moved gradually outinto the velvet dusk. I saw that turbulent emotionspossessed her， so I asked what I thought would besome sedative questions about her little girl.
“We don’t know each other very well， Nick，” shesaid suddenly. “Even if we are cousins. You didn’tcome to my wedding.”
“I wasn’t back from the war.”
“That’s true.” She hesitated. “Well， I’ve had avery bad time， Nick， and I’m pretty cynical abouteverything.”
Evidently she had reason to be. I waited but shedidn’t say any more， and after a moment I returnedrather feebly to the subject of her daughter.
“I suppose she talks， and—eats， and everything.”
“Oh， yes.” She looked at me absently. “Listen，Nick； let me tell you what I said when she was born.
Would you like to hear？”
“Very much.”
“It’ll show you how I’ve gotten to feel about—things.Well， she was less than an hour old and Tomwas God knows where. I woke up out of the etherwith an utterly abandoned feeling and asked thenurse right away if it was a boy or a girl. She toldme it was a girl， and so I turned my head away andwept.” “All right，” I said， “I’m glad it’s a girl. And hope she’ll be a fool—that’s the best thing a girl canbe in this world， a beautiful little fool.”
“You see I think everything’s terrible anyhow，”
she went on in a convinced way. “Everybody thinksso—the most advanced people. And I KNOW. I’vebeen everywhere and seen everything and done everything.” Her eyes flashed around her in a defiantway， rather like Tom’s， and she laughed with thrillingscorn. “Sophisticated—God， I’m sophisticated！ ”
The instant her voice broke off， ceasing to compelmy attention， my belief， I felt the basic insincerityof what she had said. It made me uneasy， as thoughthe whole evening had been a trick of some sortto exact a contributory emotion from me. waited， and sure enough， in a moment she lookedat me with an absolute smirk on her lovely faceas if she had asserted her membership in a ratherdistinguished secret society to which she and Tombelonged.
Inside， the crimson room bloomed with light.
Tom and Miss Baker sat at either end of the longcouch and she read aloud to him from the “SaturdayEvening Post”—the words， murmurous and uninflected， running together in a soothing tune.
The lamp-light， bright on his boots and dull on theautumn-leaf yellow of her hair， glinted along thepaper as she turned a page with a flutter of slendermuscles in her arms.
When we came in she held us silent for a momentwith a lifted hand.
“To be continued，” she said， tossing the magazineon the table， “in our very next issue.”
Her body asserted itself with a restless movementof her knee， and she stood up.
“Ten o’clock，” she remarked， apparently findingthe time on the ceiling. “Time for this good girl togo to bed.”
“Jordan’s going to play in the tournament tomorrow，” explained Daisy， “over at Westchester.”
“Oh， —you’re Jordan Baker.”
