José Dias loved superlatives. It was a way of giving an impressive aspect to his ideas; or, if these latter were lacking, they made the sentence longer. He got up to fetch the backgammon, which was in the back of the house. I flattened myself against the wall, and watched him go by with his starched white trousers, trouserstraps,* jacket, and cravat. He was one of the last people to use trouserstraps in Rio de Janeiro—perhaps in the whole world. He wore his trousers short so that they would be stretched very tightly. The black satin cravat, with a steel ring inside, immobilized his neck: it was the fashion at the time. His jacket, which was made of cheap cotton, lightweight and for indoor use, on him looked like a formal frock coat. He was thin, emaciated, and beginning to go bald; he must have been about fifty-five. He got up with his usual slow step: not the lethargic gait of a lazy man, but a logical, calculated slowness, a complete syllogism, the premise before the consequence, the consequence before the conclusion. The harshest of duties!