It was very hot. With her nostrils close to the opening In the
shutters, she inhaled the heated air of the yard of drying grass.
On the white window-sill just outside, a bronze wasp was whirling
excitedly, that cautious stinger which never arrives until summer
is sure. The oleanders in the big green tubs looked wilted though
abundantly watered that morning.

She shot a furtive glance at the doors and windows of the houses
across the street. All were closed; and she formed her own
pictures of how people inside were sleeping, lounging, idly reading
until evening coolness should invite them again to the verandas and
the streets.

No one passed but gay strolling negroes. She was seventy years old,
but her interest in life was insatiable; and it was in part,
perhaps, the secret of her amazing vitality and youthfulness that
her surroundings never bored her; she derived instant pleasure from
the nearest spectacle, always exercising her powers humorously upon
the world, never upon herself. For lack of other entertainment she
now fell upon these vulnerable figures, and began to criticise and
to laugh at them: she did not have to descend far to reach this
level. Her undimmed eyes swept everything--walk, imitative
manners, imitative dress.

Suddenly she withdrew her face from the blinds; young Meredith had
entered the gate and was coming up the pavement. If anything could
greatly have increased her happiness at this moment it would have
been the sight of him. He had been with Isabel until late the
night before; he had attended morning service and afterward gone
home with his mother and brother (she had watched the carriage as