Is there an oxymoron in this excerpt from The Great Gatsby?

He smiled understandingly–much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced–or seemed to face–the whole external world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistable prejudice in your favor. It understood you just so far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself and ured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey.