reposing on a door-mat; Diana properly dressed and returning
from the chase; a small iron boy holding over his head a
parasol from the ferrule of which a fountain squirted. The
paths were of asphalt, gray and gritty in winter, but now, in
the summer heat, black and pulpy to the tread.

There were many feet passing over them this afternoon, for
Mr. and Mrs. Matthew Wilson were giving a reception to
celebrate the official entrance of their daughter Amanda into a
social life which she had permeated unofficially for several
years. The house was sizzling full of people. Those who were
jammed in the parlour tried to get into the dining-room, and
those who were packed in the dining-room struggled to escape,
holding plates of stratified cake and liquefied ice-cream high
above their neighbours' heads like signals of danger and
distress. Everybody was talking at the same time, in a loud,
shrill voice, and nobody listened to what anybody else was
saying. But it did not matter, for they all said the same things.

"Elegant house for a party, so full of--" "How perfectly
lovely Amanda Wilson looks in that--" "Awfully warm day!
Were you at the Tompkins' last--" "Wilson's Emporium must be
doing good business to keep up all this--" "Hear he's going
to enlarge the store and take Luke Woods into the--"

"Shouldn't wonder if there might be a wedding here before
next--"

The tide of chatter rose and swelled and ebbed and
suddenly sank away. At six o'clock, the minister and two