Pestana grimaced, then, quickly disguising his displeasure, gave a stiff, silent bow, and returned, unenthusiastically, to the piano. On hearing the first few bars, a new wave of gaiety swept the room, the gentlemen rushed over to the ladies, and the pairs launched furiously into the latest polka. It was absolutely the latest thing, for it had been published only a couple of weeks earlier and there was hardly a corner of the city where it had not been heard. It had even attained that highest of accolades, being whistled and hummed in the streets at night.

Sinhazinha Mota had not for one moment thought that the Pestana she had seen at the dining table and then at the piano, with his snuff-brown frock coat and long black curly hair, his somewhat wary eyes and smoothly shaven chin, could possibly be the composer Pestana; a friend had only told her this when Pestana got up from the piano after finishing the polka. Hence her admiring question. As we have seen, he responded with some embarrassment and annoyance. Unperturbed, Sinhazinha Mota and her friend heaped so many extravagant compliments upon him that even the most humble of vanities would have been pleased. Pestana, however, received their words with growing annoyance until, pleading a terrible headache, he asked to be excused. Neither the young ladies nor his hostess could persuade him to stay. He was offered homemade remedies and a little rest, but would have none of it; he insisted on leaving, and he left.

Out in the street, he walked quickly away, afraid they might still call him back; he only slowed down once he had turned the corner of Rua Formosa. But there, too, his polka awaited him in all its jollity. From a smallish house on the right-hand side, only a few yards away, came the notes of his latest composition, played on a clarinet. There was the sound of dancing, too. Pestana paused for a few moments, considered turning back, but carried on walking, quickening his pace and crossing to the other side of the street. The notes faded into the distance, and Pestana turned into Rua do Aterrado, where he lived. As he reached his house, he saw two men coming toward him. One of them, almost brushing past Pestana, started whistling the same polka, con brio; the other man joined in and the two of them headed noisily and cheerily off down the street, while the tune’s composer ran despairingly into his house.

Once inside, he breathed again. His old house, his old staircase, his old black manservant, who came to inquire whether he wanted any supper.

“No, no supper,” Pestana bawled at him. “Just make me some coffee and go to bed.”