"Well, that's according," answered Berlanga. "When did he get to Bilbao?"
"This morning."
"Then he's probably been asleep part of the time, and now I guess he's playing dominoes in some café. And we, meantime—we're here—you and I——"
"And you don't feel very well, eh?" she asked.
"I?"
Looking at Rafaela with eloquent steadiness he slowly added:
"I feel a damn sight better than he does!"
Then, while he drank his coffee, the silversmith laid out on the table his board-money for that week. He began to count:
"Two and two's four—nine—eleven—thirty-eight pesetas. Rotten week I've had! Say, I've hardly pulled down enough for my drinks."
He got together seven dollars, piled them up—making a little column of silver change—and shoved them over to Rafaela.