It was Friday; still, for a wonder, Cesare Fragalà had not left the shop that evening, as he had got into the habit of doing every week at dusk, not to return till three in the morning, the time the last lottery-shop shut. He went backwards and forwards nervously; twice the usual newspaper boy had come to call him for Don Pasqualino: he answered that the person must wait, because he was busy. Pale and trembling, feeling she had got to an important crisis, his wife followed, with a side-glance, her husband's wanderings. Outside, the rain beat sadly on the windows, the gas-flame looked sickly.
'Shall we shut up shop now?' Fragalà said impatiently.
'It would be best, no doubt,' she said, with a slight sigh, 'especially as no one will be coming in.'
The two shopmen, helped by the porter and message-boy, made haste to put up the iron gates, put out the outside gas, and give a general cleaning up before going away by the little back-shop door in Bianchi Lane. Quickly they said good-night and set off, one by one. The white shop, its shelves brilliant with colour from the chocolate-boxes, was now lit by one gas-jet only. Luisella was seated behind the counter, as usual, and little Agnesina had gone to sleep in her chair, her knees covered with shreds of paper. Cesare often disappeared into the back-shop, as if he could get no peace. Neither of them could make up their mind to speak, feeling that it was a grave crisis that they had come to. She, above all, felt herself choking. It was he who spoke first.
'Look here, Luisella,' he said, in a low voice: 'you know what a bad season we have had.'
'It is a real disaster, I assure you, my dear--enough to make one give up keeping shop. You carry out economies, I work hard ... and it goes from bad to worse.'
'I know that,' she muttered again, as if tired of those grumbles.
'You cannot know the full extent of it ... you would have to deal directly with the wholesale houses to know what ruin----'
'Come to the point,' she said, rather bitterly.
'Are you angry with me?' Cesare asked humbly.
'No, it is not that,' she replied, in a curious tone.
'Well, I want you to do me a favour--a great favour, so great I am ashamed to ask it, even.'
'Say what it is,' she just uttered, keeping down the pained feeling her husband's words caused her.