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 it rolled away down the street); he had returned at this unusual hour.  Such eagerness had her approval; and coupling it with Isabel’s demeanor upon leaving the table the previous evening, never before so radiant with love, she felt that she had ground for believing the final ambition of her life near its fulfilment.

As he advanced, the worldly passions other nature—­the jungle passions—­she had no others—­saluted him with enthusiasm.  His head and neck and bearing, stature and figure, family and family history, house and lands—­she inventoried them all once more and discovered no lack.  When he had rung the bell, she leaned back; in her chair and eavesdropped with sparkling eyes.

“Is Miss Conyers at home?”

The maid replied apologetically: 

“She wished to be excused to-day, Mr. Meredith.”

A short silence followed.  Then he spoke as a man long conscious of a peculiar footing: 

“Will you tell her Mr. Meredith would like to see her,” and without waiting to be invited he walked into the library across the hall.

She heard the maid go upstairs with hesitating step.

Some time passed before she came down.  She brought a note and handed it to him, saying with some embarrassment: 

“She asked me to give you this note, Mr. Meredith.”