an
artist's conception of Babylon falling or Rome burning.

From where the woman stood at the window she could make out the round,
white, mushroom top of a policeman's summer helmet as its wearer leaned
back, half sheltered under the narrow portico of the stoop just below
her; and she could see his uniform sleeve and his hand, covered with a
white cotton glove, come up, carrying a handkerchief, and mop the hidden
face under the helmet's brim. The squeak of his heavy shoes was plainly
audible to her also. While she stayed there, watching and listening, two
pedestrians--and only two--passed on her side of the street: a messenger
boy in a glistening rubber poncho going west and a man under an umbrella
going east. Each was hurrying along until he came just opposite her, and
then, as though controlled by the same set of strings, each stopped
short and looked up curiously at the blind, dark house and at the figure
lounging in the doorway, then hurried on without a word, leaving the
silent policeman fretfully mopping his moist face and tugging at the
wilted collar about his neck.

After a minute or two at her peephole behind the window curtains above,
the woman passed back through the door to the inner, middle room where
the man sat.

"Still there," she said lifelessly in the half whisper that she had come
to use almost altogether these last few days; "still there and sure to
stay there until another one just like him comes to take his place. What
else did you expect?"

The man only nodded absently and went on peeling an overripe peach,
striking out constantly, with the hand that held the knife, at the
flies. They were green flies--huge, shiny-backed, buzzing, persistent
vermin. There were a thousand of them; there seemed to be a million of
them. They filled the shut-in room with their vile humming; they swarmed
everywhere in the half light. They were thickest, though, in a corner at
the back, where there was a closed, white door. Here a great knot of
them, like an iridescent, shimmering jewel, was clustered about the
keyhole. They scrolled the white enameled panels with intricate,
shifting patterns, and in pairs and singly they promenaded busily on the
white porcelain knob, giving it the appearance of being alive and having
a motion of its own.

It was stiflingly hot and sticky in the room. The sweat rolled down the
man's face as he peeled his peach and pared some half-rotted spots out
of it. He protected it with a cup