“I must speak to you tomorrow, without fail; choose the place and let me know.”
I think José Dias was unused to my speaking in this way. The tone had not come out as peremptory as I had feared it would, but the words were, and my not inquiring, asking or hesitating, as was a child’s place and was my habit, surely gave him the notion that here was a new person and a new situation. It happened in the corridor, as we were going in for tea; José Dias came out full of the reading of Walter Scott that he had been doing for my mother and cousin Justina. He read in a slow, singsong voice. In his mouth, the castles and parks were larger, the lakes had more water in them, and the “celestial vault” was furnished with a few more thousand sparkling stars. In the dialogues, he alternated the sounds of the voices, making them slightly harsher or softer according to the sex of the person speaking: with moderation, too, he conveyed tenderness and anger.
When he left me on the verandah, he said:
“Tomorrow, in the street. I have some purchases to make, and you can come with me, I’ll ask Mamma. Have you got a lesson?”
“The lesson was today.”
“Quite so. I won’t ask you what it is; I am sure it is something serious and proper.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Till tomorrow, then.”
Everything worked out as it should. There was only one change: my mother thought the weather too hot and would not allow me to go on foot; we got into the bus* outside the house.
“It doesn’t matter,” José Dias said to me, “we can get off at the entrance to the Promenade.”†