"I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a-of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn't he?" She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation. "An absolute rose?"
This was untrue.
I am not even faintly like a rose.
She was only extemporizing but a stirring warmth flowed from her as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words.
Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house.
Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning.
I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said "Sh!" in a warning voice.
A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond and Miss Baker leaned forward, unashamed, trying to hear.
The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down, mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether.
"This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbor--" I said.