The punch was so strong that everything bounced on the table. Coffee saucers, cups, dessert plates, glasses, all found themselves for a fraction of a second suspended before landing, some normally and some clumsily, on the white embroidered tablecloth. The little sour cherry juice left in one of the glasses, which couldn’t regain its balance, spilled, and a stain resembling blood spread. A bad omen, thought the two women who felt, unlike the dishes, the ground still trembling beneath their own feet. “What I said, that’s exactly what you’ll tell Kleomenis, Mrs. Smaroula!” The woman being addressed blinked slightly, exchanged a glance with the other woman, and then dared to take a step toward the angry man. “Mr. Sarantis,” she began, trying to make her voice as sweet as possible, “I’m not saying you don’t have a thousand rights, but think about what you’re asking me to say to the poor lad! He’s an orphan, but honest and hardworking! He saw your Aristea, he liked her, and as an honorable man, he sent a proposal! And note, Mr. Sarantis, that he hasn’t spoken to your girl! He only looked at her from afar, and his heart was burning…”
“Mrs. Smaroula, you won’t fool me with flattery, and you know it! Your handsome young man, besides Aristea, also considered her dowry! So, if he wants my pounds, then for marriage, we only have Myrsini! She’s the eldest, she will marry first, I don’t change traditions!” “Mr. Sarantis, the way you talk, one would think the eldest is also… an old maid! Your Myrsini is twenty-four years old, and Aristea is twenty-two!” “So what? Is she or isn’t she older?” “Yes, but Aristea is more beautiful!” the matchmaker blurted out and then bit her tongue. “And what does beauty have to do with marriage? Myrsini is accomplished, a good housekeeper, and sensible! Strong and sturdy to bear him children!” “But he wants Aristea! He doesn’t like Myrsini, what can we do now?” the matchmaker complained, now exasperated. “Speak up too, Mrs. Barbara! They’re your girls as well!”