If he felt all this for Aunt Maria, what
would he not feel for the world, and for that wife of his? If old Aunt
Maria could so wake in him the love of life and the hatred of that living
death to which he had been condemned, what passionate will to live would
rise in answer to the world's wonder and his wife's?
"I wish you'd give me that little book on the table there," he said. Aunt
Maria obeyed. "My engagement-book," he explained. "Look. I had things
booked for five months ahead. See--speeches, meetings, committees, the
Alethea--so on--so on. They're all what they call cancelled now." He
turned the leaves and Aunt Maria stood by him, watching.
"They won't get anybody to do 'em like you, Sandro," she said.
He flung the book down on the floor in sudden peevishness, with an oath
of anger and exasperation.
"By God, why haven't I a fair chance?" he asked, and fell back on his
pillows.
Lady Mildmay would have come and whispered softly to him, patted his
hand, given him lemonade, and bade him try to sleep while she read softly
to him.
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