That wasn’t the end of it. Queirós stood up two or three minutes later for another toast, and this time the silence was even more immediate and complete. Joaninha stared into her lap, embarrassed at what he might say. Rangel shuddered.

“Senhor Rangel, the illustrious friend of this house,” said Queirós, “drank to the two people who share the name of the saint we commemorate today; I drink to the person who is a saint every day of the year, Dona Adelaide.”

Loud applause greeted this worthy sentiment, and Dona Adelaide, greatly flattered, was congratulated by each and every guest. Her daughter did not stop at congratulations. “Mama! Dearest Mama!” she exclaimed, getting up from her seat and going over to hug and kiss her mother three or four times—a sort of letter, as it were, to be read by two people.

Rangel’s anger turned to despondency and, as soon as supper was finished, he decided it was time to leave. But hope, that green-eyed demon, begged him to stay, and he stayed. Who knows? It might blow over, a St. John’s Eve flirtation; he was, after all, a good friend of the family, held in high esteem, and the young lady’s hand was his for the asking. Furthermore, that Queirós fellow might well not have the means to marry. What was that job of his at the hospital? Something menial, perhaps? He glanced at Queirós’s clothes, running his eyes over the seams, scrutinizing the embroidery on his shirt, examining the knees of his trousers to see if they were worn from use, also his shoes, and he concluded that Queirós was a capricious young man who probably spent all his money on himself, whereas marriage was a serious business. Also, he might well have a widowed mother, unmarried sisters. Rangel had only himself to provide for.

“Play a quadrille, Uncle Rufino.”

“I can’t. After a meal, playing the flute always gives me indigestion. Let’s play lotto.”

Rangel declared he could not play lotto on account of a headache, but Joaninha came over to him and asked him to be her partner. “Half the winnings for you, half for me,” she said, smiling; he smiled, too, and accepted. They sat down side by side. Joaninha talked, laughed, looked up at him with her beautiful eyes, and glanced restlessly around at her at the other guests. Rangel felt a little better, and in no time at all felt entirely better. He marked off the numbers randomly, missing some of them, which she pointed out with her finger—a nymph’s finger, he said to himself, and his mistakes became deliberate, just so he could see her finger and hear her scold him: “You’re not paying attention, Senhor Rangel; do watch out or we’ll lose all our money!”