"And I don't know that it's exactly dishonest," said Aunt Maria meditatively. "But that's just like Sandro. He's always doing things that you can't be quite sure about—whether they're straight or not, you know. He was just the same as a boy."
May had a sense of treachery in listening, but how should she not listen? Morewood's opinion came into her memory. Miss Quisanté was confirming it out of her full acquaintance with its subject.
"I gave him the money, it was his own, I've got nothing to show," said Miss Quisanté with her vinegary little smile.
"Perhaps he—he misunderstood what you meant; I mean, that you intended the money for any special purpose."
"That's exactly what he'll say," remarked Aunt Maria with a triumphant nod.
"But if it's true——"
"I shan't know whether it's true or not. That's where Sandro's cleverness comes in."
It was hard to realise that the old lady talked of the man whom her hearer had seen on Duty Hill.
"I'm sure you don't do him justice." The plea sounded weak even to its utterer.
"To an ounce," said Aunt Maria emphatically. May laughed. "I lived with him for twelve years, and I'm not a fool any more than he is. If you ask him about me, you'll get the truth, and you get it when you ask me about him. After twelve years I ought to know."