At that very moment, a carriage pulled up at the front door. A lady stepped out, the doorbell sounded, a houseboy went down to open the gate, and Dona Maria dos Anjos came up the steps. When the visitor was announced, Dona Benedita dropped her pen in agitation; she hurriedly got dressed, put on her shoes, and went into the drawing room.

“Fancy coming out in this weather!” she exclaimed. “That is true friendship!”

“I didn’t want to wait for you to visit me, simply to show that I’m not one to stand on ceremony, and that between you and me there must be no constraints.”

This was followed by the same compliments and sweet, caressing words as on the previous day. Dona Benedita kept insisting that coming to visit her that very day was the greatest of courtesies and a proof of genuine friendship, but, she added a moment later, she wished for further proof and asked Dona Maria dos Anjos to stay for dinner. Her friend excused herself, pleading that she had to be elsewhere; furthermore, this was the very proof of friendship that she herself desired, namely, that Dona Benedita should come and dine at her house first. Dona Benedita did not hesitate and promised that she would dine with her that very week.

“I was just this minute writing your name,” she continued.

“Were you?”

“Yes, I’m writing to my husband and telling him all about you. I won’t repeat to you what I’ve written, but you can imagine that I spoke very ill of you, telling him what an unkind, insufferable, tedious woman you are, a terrible bore . . . You can just imagine!”

“I can indeed. And you can add that, despite all that and more, I send him my deepest respects.”

“See how witty she is!” remarked Dona Benedita, looking at her daughter.

Eulália smiled unconvincingly. Perched on a chair facing her mother, beside the sofa on which Dona Maria dos Anjos was sitting, Eulália gave the two ladies’ conversation only the degree of attention that good manners required, and not a jot more.

She came close to looking bored; every smile that appeared on her lips was wan and languid, pure duty. One of her braids—it was still morning and she was wearing her hair in two long braids—served her as a pretext to look away from time to time, because she would occasionally tug at it to count the hairs, or so it seemed. At least that’s what Dona Maria dos Anjos thought, when she occasionally shot a glance in Eulália’s direction, curious and somewhat suspicious. For her part, Dona Benedita saw nothing; she had eyes only for her dear friend, her enchantress, as she called her two or three times: “my dear, dear enchantress.”

“Enough!”