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whenever she wants to use it. You see, as things stand now, this house and everything goes to Leona under my will—everything but some odds and ends. Whenever she’s been in trouble—like now, after this divorce—she’s come home here, to me. Ever since she was a little girl, Alan, it’s been so. I think some day she may want this house for her own.”
    He looks at her steadily. “Just don’t try to trap her, Edie,” he says.
    â€œTrap her? How could I trap her?”
    â€œWith this house. With the kind of life you’ve had here.”
    Edith Blakewell is silent.
    â€œIt’s taken you all these years to be even tolerated here,” he says. “It will take her just as long.”
    â€œâ€˜Edie, Edie, fat and greedy, how does your garden grow?’ Remember that, Alan? That’s what you’re talking about, isn’t it?”
    â€œYou may think this island has forgotten your father. They haven’t forgotten. Everywhere she goes, they say, ‘There’s Leona Ware. Her great-grandfather was Meredith Harper.’”
    He takes a final swallow from his brandy glass and puts it down. He removes his large watch from his vest pocket, snaps open the case, purses his lips, and snaps it closed again and returns it to the pocket. Steepling his fingers in his best professional manner, he says, “I must be on my way. Susan will call you about an appointment for the pictures.” Then he reaches out and gently tweaks Edith’s nose. “Good night, my sweet.” He rises and picks up his bag.
    Edith follows him to the door. “I just want her to be happy, Alan,” she says. “She’s had so much, but still she isn’t happy.”
    He stands in the open doorway. “The only trouble with Leona is she’s just like her grandmother. A little spitfire.” He takes her hand and squeezes it. “One of these days we’ll become lovers, wait and see.”
    â€œBut first I’ll have to give my house to your hospital. Correct? Come here a minute,” she says. He steps forward. “Want to hear something dirty in Danish?” she asks him.
    He tips his little head forward eagerly. “Yes? What is it?”
    She whispers the naughty words to him.
    â€œVery interesting. What’s it mean?”
    â€œFire up your behind!” she says, and laughs loudly. “Now listen, Alan. There’s a dark-haired young man named Edward Winslow staying at the Virgin Isle. Do some snooping for me. Find out all you can about him, what his background is, what his qualifications are—you know what I mean.”
    â€œHis qualifications as a suitor for Leona, dear? Or for you?” He pats her bottom.
    â€œShoo!” she says. “You’re a nasty old man with a nasty mind. Now run along.” Still laughing, she closes the door on him.
    She continues laughing noisily to herself, moving slowly about the room, undressing again, getting ready for dinner. She takes her blue crepe off its hanger, struggles into it, leaving the zipper undone for Nellie to do up when she comes downstairs. But she is not really in a humorous frame of mind and when she sits down at her dressing table she spills face powder all over the glass top. It floats up in a cloud in front of the mirror and in its reflection she looks as though she were being dissolved— pouf! —by a conjurer’s trick, and powder settles all over the backs of her hairbrushes, over silver picture frames, into an open jar of cold cream, and across the front of her dress. She tries to brush the powder away, but the powder clings and smears, and she thinks for a moment that she is about to cry again, and it is not like Edith to cry without reason. She starts to stand up, but there is a deep and painful stitch in her left side, and so she sits where she is. Bitter and old, withered and dry. She wants to ring for Nellie, but the electric bell is on the