"How shall we ever stick to
our year?" she asked. "He means it now and I mean it. But----"
"You won't do it," said Aunt Maria emphatically. "Nobody could keep
Sandro quiet for a year!"
"Don't tell me that. We're going to try."
"Oh, I won't interfere, my dear. Try away. After all he'll be young
still, and they won't forget him in a year. Or if they do, he'll soon
make them remember him again."
The buoyant confidence was hard to resist. It seemed to grow greater in
face of all reason, and more and more to fill the old woman's mind as she
herself descended towards the grave which she scorned as a possibility
for Sandro. For now she was very small and frail, thin and yellow; she
too, like her nephew, seemed to hold on to life rather because she chose
of her arbitrary will, than thanks to any physical justification that she
could adduce. Could Quisante not only make himself live but make Aunt
Maria live too? Full of the influence of that last great moment, May,
laughing at herself, yet hesitated to answer "No." But the year was to be
tried, lest, if die he must, he should die to please her or thinking that
she wanted him to die.
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