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We
walked
through
a
high
hallway
into
a
bright
rosy-colored
space
,
fragilely
bound
into
the
house
by
French
windows
at
either
end
.
The
windows
were
ajar
and
gleaming
white
against
the
fresh
grass
outside
that
seemed
to
grow
a
little
way
into
the
house
.
A
breeze
blew
through
the
room
,
blew
curtains
in
at
one
end
and
out
the
other
like
pale
flags
,
twisting
them
up
toward
the
frosted
wedding-cake
of
the
ceiling
,
and
then
rippled
over
the
wine-colored
rug
,
making
a
shadow
on
it
as
wind
does
on
the
sea
.
The
only
completely
stationary
object
in
the
room
was
an
enormous
couch
on
which
two
young
women
were
buoyed
up
as
though
upon
an
anchored
balloon
.
They
were
both
in
white
,
and
their
dresses
were
rippling
and
fluttering
as
if
they
had
just
been
blown
back
in
after
a
short
flight
around
the
house
.
I
must
have
stood
for
a
few
moments
listening
to
the
whip
and
snap
of
the
curtains
and
the
groan
of
a
picture
on
the
wall
.
Then
there
was
a
boom
as
Tom
Buchanan
shut
the
rear
windows
and
the
caught
wind
died
out
about
the
room
,
and
the
curtains
and
the
rugs
and
the
two
young
women
ballooned
slowly
to
the
floor
.
The
younger
of
the
two
was
a
stranger
to
me
.
She
was
extended
full
length
at
her
end
of
the
divan
,
completely
motionless
,
and
with
her
chin
raised
a
little
,
as
if
she
were
balancing
something
on
it
which
was
quite
likely
to
fall
.
If
she
saw
me
out
of
the
corner
of
her
eyes
she
gave
no
hint
of
it
--
indeed
,
I
was
almost
surprised
into
murmuring
an
apology
for
having
disturbed
her
by
coming
in
.
The
other
girl
,
Daisy
,
made
an
attempt
to
rise
--
she
leaned
slightly
forward
with
a
conscientious
expression
--
then
she
laughed
,
an
absurd
,
charming
little
laugh
,
and
I
laughed
too
and
came
forward
into
the
room
.
"
I
'm
p-paralyzed
with
happiness
.
"
She
laughed
again
,
as
if
she
said
something
very
witty
,
and
held
my
hand
for
a
moment
,
looking
up
into
my
face
,
promising
that
there
was
no
one
in
the
world
she
so
much
wanted
to
see
.
That
was
a
way
she
had
.
She
hinted
in
a
murmur
that
the
surname
of
the
balancing
girl
was
Baker
.
(
I
've
heard
it
said
that
Daisy
's
murmur
was
only
to
make
people
lean
toward
her
;
an
irrelevant
criticism
that
made
it
no
less
charming
.
)
At
any
rate
,
Miss
Baker
's
lips
fluttered
,
she
nodded
at
me
almost
imperceptibly
,
and
then
quickly
tipped
her
head
back
again
--
the
object
she
was
balancing
had
obviously
tottered
a
little
and
given
her
something
of
a
fright
.
Again
a
sort
of
apology
arose
to
my
lips
.
Almost
any
exhibition
of
complete
self-sufficiency
draws
a
stunned
tribute
from
me
.
I
looked
back
at
my
cousin
,
who
began
to
ask
me
questions
in
her
low
,
thrilling
voice
.
It
was
the
kind
of
voice
that
the
ear
follows
up
and
down
,
as
if
each
speech
is
an
arrangement
of
notes
that
will
never
be
played
again
.
Her
face
was
sad
and
lovely
with
bright
things
in
it
,
bright
eyes
and
a
bright
passionate
mouth
,
but
there
was
an
excitement
in
her
voice
that
men
who
had
cared
for
her
found
difficult
to
forget
:
a
singing
compulsion
,
a
whispered
"
Listen
,
"
a
promise
that
she
had
done
gay
,
exciting
things
just
a
while
since
and
that
there
were
gay
,
exciting
things
hovering
in
the
next
hour
.
I
told
her
how
I
had
stopped
off
in
Chicago
for
a
day
on
my
way
East
,
and
how
a
dozen
people
had
sent
their
love
through
me
.
"
Do
they
miss
me
?
"
she
cried
ecstatically
.
"
The
whole
town
is
desolate
.
All
the
cars
have
the
left
rear
wheel
painted
black
as
a
mourning
wreath
,
and
there
's
a
persistent
wail
all
night
along
the
north
shore
.
"
