The last days were serene ones. The loveliest of St. Brice summers drifted by, and Edith drifted with the days, gazing out at the garden from the chaise longue or moving slowly about it in the wheelchair, dozing, remembering, planning small bequests. On August 4, she wrote a line to Matilda Gay at Le Breau: I am just sending you this line by Elisina, to tell you how sorry I am not to be able to go with her to see you this afternoon. I should have been quite willing to go, but Elisina and my maid behaved so awfully about it that I had no alternative but to go on dozing on the sofa.'
It was a last little flash of the old spirit, but the handwriting was tremulous and ran all over the page. Edith Wharton died a week later, just before six on the evening of Wednesday, August 11.
-- R.W.B. Lewis, Edith Wharton: A Biography