His old Aunt Maria Quisante stood motionless, saying not a word,
looking away from him. Yet she was nearer to his mood and suited him
better than kind Lady Mildmay.
"You've done a good bit already, Sandro," she said. "And you're only
thirty-nine."
"And I'm to die at thirty-nine, or else live like an idiot, bored to
death, and boring to death everybody about me!"
"I shall go now," said Aunt Maria. "Good-bye, Sandro. Send for me again
when you want me."
"Aunt Maria!" She stopped at his call. "Go and see May. Go and talk to
her."
"Yes, Sandro."
"Tell her what you think. You know: I mean, tell her that perhaps it's
not as bad as the doctors say; that I may get about a bit soon and--and
so on--You know."
"I'm to tell her that?" asked Aunt Maria.
"She's not to conclude it's all over with me yet." Miss Quisante nodded
and moved towards the door.
"Oh, and before you go, just pick up that book and give it me again, will
you?"
She returned, picked up the engagement-book and gave it him; then she
stood for a moment by the bed, beginning to smile a little.
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