Supper was served. The guests entered the dining room in no particular order and, happily for Rangel, he found himself opposite Joaninha, whose eyes were more beautiful than ever and so bright they scarcely seemed the same eyes at all. Rangel savored them in silence, and carefully pieced back together the dream that wretch Queirós had so abruptly shattered with a snap of his fingers. Once again he saw himself by her side, in the house he would rent for them, their little love nest, adorned with all the golden ornaments of his imagination. He would even win a prize in the lottery and spend it all on silks and jewels for his dear wife, the lovely Joaninha, Joaninha Rangel, Dona Joaninha Rangel, Dona Joana Viegas Rangel, or even Dona Joana Cândida Viegas Rangel—he couldn’t leave out the Cândida.

“Come on, a toast, Mr. Diplomat. Give us one of your famous toasts!”

Rangel awoke from his reverie; the whole table joined in Uncle Rufino’s request; Joaninha herself was begging him to propose a toast, just like last year’s. Rangel promised to oblige, just as soon as he had polished off his chicken wing. There were general stirrings and murmurings of praise; when one of the young ladies confided that she had never heard Rangel speak, Dona Adelaide replied in astonishment:

“Really? Goodness gracious, you can’t imagine how well he speaks: so very clearly, and with such well-chosen words, and such refinement!”

As he ate, he rehearsed a few thoughts and fragments of ideas that would form the basis of his fine phrases and metaphors. When he was ready, he stood up with an air of self-satisfaction. At last, they were coming knocking at his door. The merry-go-round of anecdotes and mindless jokes was over and they had come to him for something dignified and serious. He looked around and saw all eyes fixed expectantly on him. Not quite all; Joaninha’s were turned toward Queirós, whose eyes met hers halfway, along with a cavalcade of promises. Rangel blanched. The words died in his throat, but speak he must; everyone was eagerly, silently waiting for him.

His efforts failed to impress. He merely toasted their host and his daughter. The latter he called “a divine inspiration, transported from immortality to reality,” a phrase he had used three years earlier, but that should by now have faded from memory. He spoke also of the sanctuary of family, the altar of friendship, and of gratitude being the flowering of pure hearts. What it lacked in meaning, it made up for in empty grandiloquence. All in all, it was a speech that should have stretched to a good ten minutes, but which he dispatched in five, then sat down.