Of the furniture in the room, only the sofa seemed to have understood our moral situation, for it offered the services of its wickerwork so insistently that we accepted and sat down. The particular opinion I have of sofas dates from that moment. They unite intimacy and decorum, and reveal the whole house without one having to leave the living room. Two men sitting on a sofa can debate the destiny of an empire, and two women the charm of a dress; but only by some aberration of the laws of nature will a man and a woman talk of anything other than themselves. That was what we did, Capitu and I. I can vaguely remember that I asked her if she would have to stay long…
“I don’t know; the fever seems to be abating … but …”
I also remember, vaguely, that I explained my visit to the Rua dos Inválidos by telling her the simple truth, that is, that it was my mother’s advice.
“Her advice?” murmured Capitu.
And she added with her eyes shining singularly brightly:
“We are going to be happy!”
I repeated these words just with my fingers, squeezing hers. The sofa, whether it saw or not, continued to provide its services to our clasped hands, and to our heads, which were touching, or nearly.