"I'll ask him," said May, "and I must insist on knowing." She paused and
added, "I ought to have noticed and I ought to have asked before. But
somehow----" The sentence went unfinished, and Aunt Maria's sharp
unsatisfied eyes drew no further answer. May kissed her when they parted;
whatever this idea might mean to her, whatever the strange tumult it
might raise in her, she read well enough the story of the old lady's
rough tones, shaking hands and frightened eyes. To the old woman Sandro
was the sum of life. She might sneer, she might scorn, she might rail,
she might and would suffer at his hands. But he was the one thing, the
sole support, she had to cling to; he kept her alive. Yet the last words
that Miss Quisante said were, "I expect Sandro wanted to wheedle
something out of that woman, and has been playing one of his tricks to
get a bit of sympathy." Then she climbed slowly and totteringly down the
stairs.
Left alone, May Quisante sat in apparent idleness, letting her thoughts
play with a freedom which some people consider in itself blameworthy,
though certainly no action and often no desire accompany the picture
which the mind draws.
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