It is not without some difficulty that M. Lupot obtains silence for his daughter's song. At sight of the old neighbour and his guitar a smothered laugh is visible in the assembly. It is undeniable that the gentleman is not unlike a respectable Troubadour with a barrel organ, and that his guitar is like an ancient harp. There is great curiosity to hear the old gentleman touch his instrument. He begins by beating time with his feet and his head, which latter movement gives him very much the appearance of a mandarin that you sometimes see on a mantelpiece. Nevertheless Mademoiselle Lupot essays her ballad; but she can never manage to overtake her accompanier, who, instead of following the singer, seems determined to make no alteration in the movement of his head and feet. The ballad is a failure--Celanire is confused, she has mistaken her notes--she loses her recollection; and, instead of hearing his daughter's praises, M. Lupot overhears the young people whispering--"It wouldn't do in a beer-shop." "I must order in the tea," thought the ex-stationer--"it will perhaps put them into good-humour." And M. Lupot rushes off to give instructions to the maid; and that old individual, who has never seen such a company before, does not know how to get on, and breaks cups and saucers without mercy, in the effort to make haste. "Nannette, have you got ready the other things you were to bring in with the tea?--the muffins--the cakes?" "Yes, sir"--replied Nannette--"all is ready--every thing will be in in a moment." "But there is another thing I told you, Nannette--the sandwiches." "The witches, sir?--the sand?"--enquired the puzzled Nannette. "It is an English dish--I explained it to you before--slices of bread and butter, with ham between." "Oh la, sir!" exclaimed the maid--"I have forgotten that ragoût--oh dear!" "Well--make haste, Nannette; get ready some immediately, while my daughter hands round the tea and muffins--you can bring them in on a tray." The old domestic hurries into the kitchen grumbling at the English dainty, and cuts some slices of bread and covers them with butter; but as she had never thought of the ham, she cogitates a long time how she can supply the want of it--at last, on looking round, she discovers a piece of beef that had been left at dinner. "Pardieu," she says, "I'll cut some lumps of this and put them on the bread. With plenty of salt they'll pass very well for ham--they'll drive me wild with their English dishes--they will." The maid speedily does as she says, and then hurries into the room with a tray covered with her extempore ham sandwiches. Every body takes one,--for they have grown quite fashionable along with tea. But immediately there is an universal murmur in the assembly. The ladies throw their slices into the fire, the gentlemen spit theirs on the furniture, and they cry--"why the devil do people give us things like these?--they're detestable."