“That’s the finishing touch,” muttered Vidal.
The audience broke up and made off toward Madrid. There was the roll of drums and the blare of bugles. The sun glowed in the window panes of the houses nearby. Manuel, Vidal and the two women were walking through the Paseo de Areneros when they heard the crack of another discharge.
“He wasn’t dead yet,” added Vidal, paler than ever.
The four became moody.
“I tell you what,” spoke up Vidal. “I have an idea for wiping away the unpleasant impression this has made upon us. Let’s go for a little excursion and lunch this afternoon.”
“Where?” asked Manuel.
“Over by the river. It’ll remind us of the good old days. Eh. What do you say?”
“Right-o.”
“La Justa won’t be busy?”