Mariana gave a sigh of relief. The dove was free of the hawk. Her soul was aching from all the pushing and shoving, dizzy from all those disparate people and things. What she needed was equilibrium and peace. She was nearly home; as she watched the neighboring houses and gardens pass by, Mariana felt her spirits lift. At last she arrived; she entered the garden, and took a deep breath. This was her world, except for a flowerpot that the gardener had moved.

“João, put that flowerpot back where it was,” she said.

Everything else was in order, the entrance hall, the drawing room, the dining room, the bedrooms, everything. First of all, Mariana sat down, in various different places, looking carefully at all the objects, so still and orderly. After a whole day of swirling variety, the monotony restored her peace of mind, and had never before seemed so delightful. The truth was she’d made a mistake. She tried to relive the day’s events, but couldn’t; her soul was gently slipping back into its home comforts. At most, she thought about Viçoso, whom she now, rather unfairly, thought ridiculous. She undressed slowly and lovingly, precisely removing and putting away each item of clothing. Once she was undressed, she thought again about the quarrel with her husband. All things considered, she realized that it had been mainly her fault. Why such stubbornness over a hat that her husband had been wearing for years? And, besides, her father was a terrible fusspot.

“I’ll wait and see the look on his face when he comes home,” she thought.

It was half-past five; he wouldn’t be long. Mariana went to the front room, peered out the window, listened for the streetcar, but heard nothing. She sat down by the window with Ivanhoe in her hands, trying, and failing, to read. Her eyes skimmed to the end of the page, then back to the beginning; firstly, because she couldn’t grasp the meaning, and secondly, because time and again her eyes would wander from the page to admire the perfect folds of the curtains or some other feature of the room. Ah, blessèd monotony, cradling her in thy eternal bosom.