Uncle Bartolo took Lucia to his own house, and, while they were preparing supper, went himself to that of Lucas, who, on receiving his discharge, had returned to Arcos and to his post among the day-laborers, and had, by his aptness and diligence, won so much credit that several profitable jobs and positions had already been offered him. As will be supposed, he had found his father’s house sold. But as his kinswoman still lived in it, he hired his former habitation, and she assisted him.
Uncle Bartolo entered, just as Lucas had finished his supper.
“Sit by, Uncle Bartolo,” said the young man.
“No, thank you. May what you have taken profit you! Will you have a cigar?”
“It wouldn’t come amiss.”
Uncle Bartolo handed Lucas a paper cigar, lighted his own, and, with characteristic bluntness, plunged into his subject.
“Lucas, man, will you tell me why you never speak of your sister? Does it appear to you that a sister is a patch sewed on to be ripped at pleasure?”
Lucas, disagreeably surprised, contracted his brows as he answered:
“I have no sister, Uncle Bartolo.”
“What! what do you say?”