“Yes, I am. I knew you’d find that hard to believe; I myself don’t quite believe it, and yet it’s true. I’m ending up where you began. For better or worse? For better, I think.”

“Do you intend to conceal the person’s name?”

“I’ll conceal it from everyone but you.”

“You clearly trust me, then . . .”

Gomes smiled.

“No,” he said, “it’s a necessary condition. You, above all men, should know the name of my heart’s chosen one, for she’s your daughter.”

“Adelaide?” asked Vasconcelos in astonishment.

“Yes, your daughter.”

This revelation was a real bombshell. Vasconcelos had never suspected such a thing.

“Do you approve?” asked Gomes.

Vasconcelos was thinking, and, after a few moments of silence, he said:

“My heart approves of your choice; you’re my friend, you’re in love, and as long as she loves you . . .”

Gomes was about to speak, but, smiling, Vasconcelos went on:

“But what about society?”

“What society?”

“The society that believes both you and me to be libertines; they’re hardly going to approve.”

“So that’s a no, is it?” said Gomes sadly.

“No, it’s not, you fool! It’s an objection you could rebut by declaring that society is a great slanderer and famously indiscreet. My daughter is yours, on one condition.”

“Which is?”

“Reciprocity. Does she love you?”

“I don’t know.”

“So you’re not sure . . .”

“I really don’t know, I only know that I love her and would give my life for her, but I have no idea if my feelings are requited.”

“They will be. I’ll test the waters. In two days’ time, I’ll give you my answer. To think you could be my son-in-law . . .”

Gomes’s response was to fall into his friend’s arms. The scene was verging on the comic when three o’clock struck. Gomes remembered that he’d arranged to meet another friend. Vasconcelos remembered that he had to write some letters.

Gomes left without speaking to the two ladies.

At about four o’clock, Vasconcelos was preparing to go out, when he was told that Senhor José Brito had come to see him.

When he heard this name, the normally jovial Vasconcelos frowned.

Shortly afterward, Senhor José Brito entered his study.

Senhor José Brito was, as far as Vasconcelos was concerned, a specter, an echo from the abyss, the voice of reality—a creditor.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you today,” said Vasconcelos.

“I’m surprised,” answered Senhor José Brito with a kind of piercing calm, “because today is the twenty-first.”

“I thought it was the nineteenth,” stammered Vasconcelos.

“The day before yesterday it was, but today is the twenty-first. Look,” said the creditor, picking up the Jornal do Commercio lying on a chair, “Thursday the twenty-first.”

“Have you come for the money?”