windows, and I determined to ask for
her, having nothing to do till bedtime. I had come out simply to pass an
hour, leaving my hotel to the blaze of its gas and the perspiration of
its porters; but it occurred to me that my old friend might very _well_
not know of the substitution of the _Patagonia_ for the _Scandinavia_, so
that I should be doing her a service to prepare her mind. Besides, I
could offer to help her, to look after her in the morning: lone women are
grateful for support in taking ship for far countries.

It came to me indeed as I stood on her door-step that as she had a son
she might not after all be so lone; yet I remembered at the same time
that Jasper Nettlepoint was not quite a young man to lean upon, having--as
I at least supposed--a life of his own and tastes and habits which had
long since diverted him from the maternal side. If he did happen just
now to be at home my solicitude would of course seem officious; for in
his many wanderings--I believed he had roamed all over the globe--he
would certainly have learned how to manage. None the less, in fine, I
was very glad to show Mrs. Nettlepoint I thought of her. With my long
absence I had lost sight of her; but I had liked her of old, she had been
a good friend to my sisters, and I had in regard to her that sense which
is pleasant to those who in general have gone astray or got detached, the
sense that she at least knew all about me. I could trust her at any time
to tell people I was respectable. Perhaps I was conscious of how little
I deserved this indulgence when it came over me that I hadn't been near
her for ages. The measure of that neglect was given by my vagueness of
mind about Jasper. However, I really belonged nowadays to a different
generation; I was more the mother's contemporary than the son's.

Mrs. Nettlepoint was at home: I found her in her back drawing-room, where
the wide windows opened to the water. The room was dusky--it was too hot
for lamps--and she sat slowly moving her fan and looking out on the
little arm of the sea which is so pretty at night, reflecting the lights
of Cambridgeport and Charlestown. I supposed she was musing on the loved
ones she was to leave behind, her married daughters, her grandchildren;
but she struck a note more specifically Bostonian as she said to me,
pointing with her fan to the Back Bay: "I shall see nothing more charming
than that over there, you know!" She made me very welcome, but her