The second cause of Dona Benedita’s annoyance was a threatened migraine at three o’clock in the afternoon; a threat, or perhaps a suspicion of the possibility of a threat. She nearly canceled the visit, but her daughter thought it might do her good to go, and, in any event, it was too late to put it off. There was nothing else for it; Dona Benedita took her medicine, and, as she sat before the mirror brushing her hair, she was on the verge of saying that she would definitely stay at home, and she hinted as much to her daughter.

“But Mama, Dona Maria dos Anjos is expecting you,” Eulália told her.

“Indeed,” retorted her mother, “but I didn’t promise to go there if I was indisposed.”

Finally, she got dressed, put on her gloves, and issued her instructions to the servants; her head must have been hurting a lot because she was rather curt with people, like someone being compelled to do something against their will. Her daughter did her best to raise her spirits, reminding her to take her little bottle of smelling salts, urging her to go, saying how eager Dona Maria dos Anjos was to see her, repeatedly checking the little watch pinned to her waist, and so on. She would be really put out.

“Stop pestering me,” her mother said.

And off she went, feeling exasperated, fervently wishing she could throttle her daughter, telling herself that daughters were the worst thing in the world. Sons were all right: they grew up and made a career for themselves; but daughters!

Happily, the meal at Dona Maria dos Anjos’s calmed her down; not that it filled her with great satisfaction, because that wasn’t the case at all. Dona Benedita was not her usual self; she was cold and brusque, or almost brusque; she, however, explained the difference in her own terms, mentioning the threatened migraine, which was not exactly good news, but nevertheless cheered Dona Maria dos Anjos, for this refined and profound reason: it was better that her friend’s coolness was the result of an illness than a diminution in her affections. Moreover, it was nothing grave. And yet grave it was! There were no clasped hands, no loving gazes, no delicate titbits being consumed between fond caresses; in short, it was nothing like the dinner on Sunday. The meal was merely polite, not joyful; that was the most the canon could achieve. Oh, the kind, amiable canon! Eulália’s mood that day filled him with hope; her playful laughter, her easy conversation, her readiness to do as asked, to play and sing, and the tender, agreeable look on her face when she listened and spoke to Leandrinho; all this greatly restored the canon’s hopes. And for Dona Benedita to be indisposed today of all days! It really was bad luck.