Once old Miss Quisante came to see him, at his summons, not of her own
volunteering. Since the blow fell she had neither come nor written, and
May, with a sense of relief, had caught at the excuse for doing no more
than sending now and again a sick-room report. Aunt Maria looked old,
frail, and very yellow, as she made her way to a chair by her nephew's
bed. He turned to her with the smile of mockery so familiar to her eyes.
"You haven't been in any hurry to see me, Aunt Maria," said he.
"You've always sent for me when you wanted me before, Sandro, and I
supposed you would this time."
"May's kept you posted up? You know what those fools of doctors say?" The
old woman nodded. Quisante was smiling still. "I'm done then, eh?" he
asked.
Her hands were trembling, but her voice was hard and unsympathetic. "It
sounds like it," she said.
Quisante raised himself on his elbow.
"You'll see me out after all," said he, "if I'm not careful. That's what
it comes to." He gave a low laugh as Aunt Maria's lips moved but no words
came. He leant over a little nearer to her and asked, "Have you had any
talk with my wife about it?"
"No," said Aunt Maria.
Pages:
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401