"That's lucky, for I haven't," said the owner of the cigarettes.
"Well, I haven't, after all," the elder actor had to confess, after a vain search in his pockets.
"Let me provide the match," broke in McDowell Sutro. "I've only one, but it's at your service."
"Thank you," was the response. "Can I not offer you a cigarette?"
"I don't care if I do," the young man answered, involuntarily repeating the phrase he had just heard, as he thrust out his hand eagerly.
The first whiff of the smoke was like meat and drink to him; and in the sensuous enjoyment of the luxury he almost neglected to respond to the remark addressed to him. But in a minute he found himself chatting with the two actors pleasantly. Although they had been to California more than once, they knew none of his friends; but it cheered merely to hear again the names of familiar landmarks. There was more than a suggestion of haughtiness in the way they both condescended to him; but he did not resent this, even if he remarked it. Human companionship was sweet to him; and to drop into a chat with casual strangers on a bench in Union Square at midnight, even this diminished the desolation of his loneliness.
The talk lasted perhaps a quarter of an hour, and then the two other men rose to go. McDowell Sutro stood up also, as though he were at home and they were his guests.
"Come over and have a drink," said the elder of the two.
And again the young man answered, "I don't care if I do."
He would rather have had food than drink, but he could not tell two strangers that he was hungry.