I seemed to read in those last words an invitation to declare my love, and in her first words some indication that she had missed me. And so the next day I went to Engenho Velho. Maria Cora welcomed me as warmly as ever. The poet was there, telling me in verse how the aunt had sighed for me. I again became a frequent visitor, and resolved to declare myself.

I mentioned earlier that she had probably understood or guessed my feelings, just as any other woman would. Now she must definitely have understood, and yet she did not drive me away. On the contrary, she seemed to enjoy the feeling of being deeply loved.

Shortly after that night, I wrote her a letter before going to Engenho Velho. She seemed slightly withdrawn; her aunt explained that she had received troubling news from Rio Grande. I did not connect this with her marriage, and tried to cheer her up. She, however, responded merely politely. On the veranda, before I left, I handed her the letter and was about to say, “Please read it,” but my voice failed me. I could see that she was slightly embarrassed, and, to avoid saying what was best said in writing, I merely bowed and walked away through the garden. You can imagine the kind of night I spent, and the day that followed was, of course, the same, until evening came. Nevertheless, I did not immediately go back to her house; I decided to wait three or four days, not in the expectation that she would write to me, but to give her time to consider her response. I was sure her response would be a positive one, for, lately, she had treated me in a friendly, almost inviting manner.

I did not last the full four days; indeed, I barely managed three. On the evening of the third day I went back to Engenho Velho. I would not be lying if I said that I was trembling with emotion when I arrived. I found her at the piano, playing for the poet; her aunt, seated in her armchair, was deep in thought, and I was so giddy with excitement that I barely noticed her.

“Come in, Senhor Correia, but don’t fall on top of me.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

Maria Cora did not stop playing, but when she saw me, she said:

“Forgive me for not shaking your hand, but I’m acting as muse for this gentleman here.”

Minutes later, she came over and shook my hand so warmly that I saw in that a response to my letter and was almost on the point of thanking her. A few minutes passed, fifteen or twenty. Then, saying that there was a book she wanted to ask me about, we both went over to where she had left it lying on top of the sheet music on the piano. She opened it, and, inside, was a piece of paper.