"Since the payment must be made, it is better that the day of reckoning should come nearer, year by year." "For me it has come," said Bosio, in a low voice, and his chin sank upon his breast, as he leaned back, clasping his hands before him on the edge of the marble table.

The priest looked at him anxiously and in silence.
The two would certainly have met later in the day, or on the morrow, and the accident of their meeting at the cafe had only brought them together a few hours earlier.

For the hard-working country parish priest came yearly to Naples for a few days before Christmas, as he had said, and the first visit he made, after depositing his slender luggage at the house of the ecclesiastic with whom he always stopped, was to Bosio Macomer, his old pupil.
In his loneliness, that morning, Bosio had thought of Don Teodoro and had wished to see him.

It had occurred vaguely to him that the priest generally made a visit to the city about that time of the year, but he had never realized that Don Teodoro always arrived on the same day, the tenth of December, and had done so unfailingly for many years past.
Before he had been curate of the distant village of Muro, which belonged to the Serra family, Don Teodoro had been tutor to Bosio Macomer.

He had lived in Naples as a priest at large, a student, and in those days, to some extent, a man of the world.