"Rat-tat-tat!" Margherita runs to the door, receives the pink letter, and begins to fly. Anania wants to follow her, but he can't move, can't move, can't speak. It's because the postman is shaking him.
"My son, it's three o'clock. When are you going to your godfather?" asks Aunt Tatàna.
She it is, not the postman, who is shaking him. Anania springs to his feet, one eye still shut, one cheek pale, the other red.
"I'm rather sleepy. It's because I was awake all last night. Very well, I'll go now."
He washed, combed his hair, spent half an hour in making his parting first at the side, then in the middle, then doing away with it altogether.
"What an idiot I am!" he thought, trying to control his feelings but in vain.
"Are you there still? When ever are you going?" called the good woman from the courtyard. He looked out of the window and asked—
"What shall I say to him?"
"Say you are going to-morrow. Say you'll get on well, that you'll always be a good boy."
"Amen. But what will he say to me?"