"Wrong with him? What do you mean?" The question was Aunt Maria's, asked abruptly, roughly, almost indignantly. Lady Mildmay started. "I--I don't want to alarm you, I'm sure," she murmured, "but I don't like his looks. Do, do persuade him to take a rest." Both of them were silent now; Lady Mildmay's wonder grew; she did not understand them; she saw them exchange a glance whose expression she could not analyse. "He wants absolute rest and care, the care you could give him, my dear," she said to May--such a care she meant as her loving heart and hands would give to handsome Sir Winterton. "Go away with him for a few months and take care of him, now do. Keep all worries and--and ambitions and so on away from him." May's face was grave and strained in a painful attention; but on Miss Quisante's lips there came slowly a bitter little smile. What a picture this good lady drew of Sandro and his loving wife, together, apart from the world, with ambitions and worries set aside! Must the outlines of that picture be followed if--well, if Sandro was to live? "I hope you're not offended? Seeing him only now and then I notice the change. Winterton and I have both been feeling anxious about it, and we decided that you wouldn't mind if I spoke to you." "You're too good, too good," said May. "We don't deserve it." Lady Mildmay smiled. "I know what a strain the election was," said she. "Even Winterton felt it, and Mr. Quisante never seems to rest, does he?" She rose to go, but, as she said good-bye, she spoke one more word, half in a whisper and timidly, "I daresay I'm wrong, but are you sure his heart's quite sound?" And so she left them, excusing herself to the last for what might seem an intrusion, or even a slight on the careful watch that an affectionate wife keeps over her husband's health. May walked to the hearthrug and stood there; Aunt Maria, sitting very still, glanced up with a frightened gaze, but her speech came bitter with aggressive scorn. "What does the silly creature mean?" she asked. "There's nothing the matter with Sandro, is there?" "I don't know that there is," May answered slowly. "The woman talks as if he was going to die." Still the tone was contemptuous, still the look frightened. "Such nonsense!" "I hope it is. He's not strong though, is he?" Miss Quisante had often said the same, but now she received the remark irritably. "Strong! He's not a buffalo like some men, like Jimmy Benyon or, I suppose, that poor creature's husband she's always talking about. But there's nothing the matter with him, there's no reason he shouldn't--no reason he should fall ill at all." "She thinks he ought to rest, perhaps give up altogether." "Altogether? Nonsense!" The tone was sharp. "Well, then, for a long while." "And go away, and let you coddle him?" "Yes, and let me coddle him." May looked down on Aunt Maria, and for the first time smiled faintly.