Manuel could not find a word of solace; La Justa, sensing his coldness, mastered her emotion. They continued to chat. Then Manuel tranquilly gave an account of his own adventures; one recollection interwove with another, and they talked and talked unwearyingly. As they sat thus conversing the flame of the lamp flickered for a moment and with a gentle sputter went out.
“That, too, is accident,” said La Justa.
“No. It must have run out of oil,” replied Manuel. “Very well. I guess I’ll be going.”
He rummaged through his pockets. There were no matches.
“Haven’t you any matches?” she asked.
“No.”
Manuel got up and groped about; he stumbled against the table, then, striking a chair, he paused.
La Justa opened the balcony shutter that faced the street, thus allowing Manuel sufficient light to find his way to the door.
“Have you the house key?” he asked.
“No.”