Once old Miss Quisanté 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. Quisanté 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.
Quisanté 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. "Not a word, Sandro."
"Nothing to be said, eh? What does she think, though? Oh, you know! You've got your wits about you. Don't take to considering my feelings at this time of day."
Now the old woman smiled too.