Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven-a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savors of anti-climax.
His family were enormously wealthy-even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach-but now he'd left Chicago and come east in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance he'd brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest.
It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that.
Why they came east I don't know.
They had spent a year in France, for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together.
This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn't believe it-I had no sight into Daisy's heart but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking a little wistfully for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game.
And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all.
Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red and white Georgian Colonial mansion overlooking the bay.
The lawn started at the beach and ran toward the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sun-dials and brick walks and burning gardens-finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run.
The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold, and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch.