black hair touched with grey, as if he would put a veil before his countenance.
“Do you think one can make this miracle come?” she asked of him.
“The miracle is always there,” he said, “for the man who can pass his hand through to it, to take it.”
They finished dinner, and went to sit out on the verandah, looking into the garden where the light from the house fell uncannily on the blossoming trees and the dark tufts of Yucca and the strange great writhing trunks of the Laurel de India.
Cipriano had sat down next to her, smoking a cigarette.
“It is a strange darkness, the Mexican darkness!” she said.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“I don’t know yet,” she said. “Do you?”
“Yes. Very much. I think I like best the time when the day is falling and the night coming on like something else. Then, one feels