If Vasconcelos could not accompany her to every outing and every ball, a brother of his stood in for him; Lourenço was a commander of two different orders, an opposition politician, an excellent player of ombre, and, in his few moments of leisure, a most amiable fellow. He was what might be described as “an awkward so-and-so,” at least as regards his brother, for while he obeyed his sister-in-law’s every order, he would address the occasional admonitory sermon to his brother. Good seed that fell on stony ground.

Anyway, Vasconcelos had eventually woken up, and he woke in a good mood. His daughter was very pleased to see him; he spoke to his wife most affably, and she responded in kind.

“Why do you always wake up so late?” asked Adelaide, stroking his side-whiskers.

“Because I go to bed late.”

“But why do you go to bed late?”

“What a lot of questions!” said Vasconcelos, smiling.

Then he went on:

“I go to bed late because my political duties require it. You don’t know what politics is: it’s something very ugly, but very necessary.”

“I do know what politics is!” said Adelaide.

“All right, then, tell me.”

“In the country, whenever they were beating up the magistrate, they always used to say that the motive was political, which I thought was really odd, because politically speaking, not beating him up would have made much more sense . . .”

Vasconcelos laughed out loud at his daughter’s remark, and was just going off to have his breakfast when in came his brother, who could not resist saying:

“A fine time to be having breakfast!”

“Don’t you start. I have my breakfast whenever I feel like it. Don’t try and pin me down to certain hours and certain meanings. Call it breakfast or lunch, I don’t mind, but whatever it is, I’m going to eat it.”

Lourenço responded by pulling a face.

When breakfast was over, Senhor Batista arrived. Vasconcelos received him in his private study.

Batista was twenty-five and the typical man-about-town; excellent company at a supper attended by rather dubious guests, but absolutely useless in respectable company. He was witty and quite intelligent, but he had to be in the right situation for these qualities to be revealed. Otherwise, he was handsome, sported a fine mustache, wore expensive shoes, and dressed impeccably; he also smoked like a trooper, but smoked only the finest cigars.

“Only just woken up, have you?” Batista asked as he went into Vasconcelos’s study.

“Yes, about three-quarters of an hour ago. I’ve just finished breakfast. Have a cigar.”

Batista took one and sat down in a chair, while Vasconcelos struck a match.

“Have you seen Gomes?” asked Vasconcelos.

“Yes, I saw him yesterday. The big news is that he’s given up society life.”

“Really?”