Some passers-by turned around to listen to the dialogue carried on in angry tones and in a foreign tongue.
“We are making a scene,” said Miranda. “Come.”
They turned into a solitary street and for the space of a few minutes both maintained an eloquent silence.
“For whom was that letter?” the husband at last asked abruptly.
“For Don Ignacio Artegui,” answered Lucía, in a firm and composed voice.
“I knew it!” said Miranda under his breath, suppressing a malediction.
“He has lost his mother. You yourself heard so to-day.”
“It is highly indecorous, highly ridiculous,” said Miranda, whose voice sounded harsh and broken like the crackling of burning brambles, “for a lady to write in this unceremonious fashion to a man.”
“I am indebted to Señor de Artegui for services and favors,” said Lucía, “which compel me to take a part in his griefs.”
“Those services, if there be such, it is my duty to acknowledge. I would have written to him.”