They were sitting at either end of the couch, looking at each other as if some question had been asked, or was in the air, and every vestige of embarrassment was gone. Daisy’s face was smeared with tears, and when I came in she jumped up and began wiping at it with her handkerchief before a mirror. But there was a change in Gatsby that was simply confounding. He literally glowed; without a word or a gesture of exultation a new well-being radiated from him and filled the little room. “Oh, hello, old sport,” he said, as if he hadn’t seen me for years. I thought for a moment he was going to shake hands. “It’s stopped raining.” “Has it?” When he realized what I was talking about, that there were twinkle-bells of sunshine in the room, he smiled like a weather man, like an ecstatic patron of recurrent light, and repeated the news to Daisy. “What do you think of that? It’s stopped raining.” “I’m glad, Jay.” Her throat, full of aching, grieving beauty, told only of her unexpected joy. “I want you and Daisy to come over to my house,” he said, “I’d like to show her around.” “You’re sure you want me to come?” “Absolutely, old sport.” Daisy went upstairs to wash her face—too late I thought with humiliation of my towels—while Gatsby and I waited on the lawn. “My house looks well, doesn’t it?” he demanded. “See how the whole front of it catches the light.”