She paused to reread the letter, and changed “so nice,” in the first line, to “nice.” She changed “twenty-one” to “nearly twenty.” She crossed out “painting away merrily.” How do I know whether they’re merry? she asked herself. Then she noticed that the word “summer” was used three times. She changed one of them to “year.” No, that made three “years.” Put “for the vacation” instead of “for the summer.” Now the letter must be copied again. Why on earth George wanted her to invite the Clyde creature when things were complicated enough already ... she had never cared much for her even as a child ... to have outsiders here for the Picnic when they had only just got the old house in running order, and Lizzie was overworked in the kitchen, and expenses terrific anyhow ... George thought Miss Clyde might be the right person to do the pictures for the booklet he was writing for the railroad company. Always thinking of his business first and her convenience afterward. Business was something to be attended to in offices, not to be mixed up with your home life. Never try to make social friends of your business acquaintances, how many times had she told George that? Damn the Picnic, damn the Picnic, damn the Picnic! Of course she had only brought down one sheet of paper; now she must go up again for more. The dining table was the single place in the house she could write a letter. If she halted in the bedroom, in a moment Nounou was at the door with endless this that and the other about the children. If she sat down on the porch, Lizzie could see her from the pantry window and would come at once with stentorian palaver. Why couldn’t a cook do what she was told, not argue about it? In the little sitting room George had spread out his business papers; anyhow, she couldn’t bear him near her when she wanted to write. And in the garden it was too hot. A bumblebee was bumping and grumbling against the pane. If you took a cloth and held him, to put him outdoors, his deep warm hum would rise to a piercing scream of anger. She felt like that. If any one touched her.... The bee was fussing up and down the window, the one with red and blue and orange panes. She remembered that window from childhood visits to the Richmonds. When you looked through the orange glass, the purest sky turned a leaden green, dull with menace; the clear northern sunlight became a poisoned tropic glare. And the blue panes made everything a crazy cold moonscape, with strange grape-juice colours underneath the leaves. It reminded her of George’s favourite remark, in moments of stress, that women’s conduct is entirely physiological. Ponderous pedantry! Vulgar too. Physiology, a hateful word. Suddenly she felt an immense pity for all women ... even Miss Clyde. She went up to the bedroom to get another sheet of paper.