midday
It was the end of his third week , and it had brought him into September . The weather since he had begun to paint Lion 's Head was perfect for his work ; but , with the long drought , it had grown very warm . Many trees now had flamed into crimson on the hill-slopes ; the yellowing corn in the fields gave out a thin , dry sound as the delicate wind stirred the blades ; but only the sounds and sights were autumnal . The heat was oppressive at midday , and at night the cold had lost its edge . There was no dew , and Mrs. Durgin sat out with Westover on the porch while he smoked a final pipe there . She had come to join him for some fixed purpose , apparently , and she called to her boy , `` You go to bed , Jeff , '' as if she wished to be alone with Westover ; the men folks were already in bed ; he could hear them cough now and then . `` Mr. Westover , '' the woman began , even as she swept her skirts forward before she sat down , `` I want to ask you whether you would let that picture of yours go on part board ?