However, Bouzille, who had kept quiet enough during the morning, began to liven up on arriving at _The Orange Blossom_. He smiled broadly at the regiment of bottles drawn up on a sideboard, and, like the good-natured ninny he was, having never an inkling of the preposterous situation of the bridal pair and those about them, he clapped his hands gaily, suggesting: “Well, good folks, about time for a bit of a spree, eh? what if we cracked a bottle now before going any further?” Ascott, for all his pre-occupation, could not help smiling; in fact, if there was any one person in the whole crew that revolted him less profoundly than the rest, it was certainly this merry-hearted tramp; the fellow was rough and brutal, but he seemed to be an honest man. On the contrary, Ascott felt greatly embarrassed at the idea of sitting down to table with his servant; in his own mind he decided there was only one thing to be done—to send the man about his business that very evening. Besides, _The Orange Blossom_ itself was little to his taste. What a place! What a vulgar show! Still, he must make the best of things, and taking Bouzille’s hint, Ascott called the waiter and demanded drinks. And it was no other than Fandor who stepped forward to take the rich Englishman’s order. Without more ado, Ascott took his seat, putting Nini on his right and old Moche on his left; this done, he kept his eyes fixed on the table-cloth, not knowing in the least which way to look or what to do. Bouzille’s fine enthusiasm had suddenly quieted down, while the rest of the company were not “playing up” one bit: there they sat, each more stockish than the other. If anybody had come in hopes of diversion, he was finding himself singularly disappointed. John, sitting facing his master, dared not utter a word, Moche never opened his lips, Nini was cross and angry, Ascott pale and silent as the grave! Fandor, with the landlord’s help—for the journalist had proved himself from the very start a most indifferent waiter—served the first course, during which not half-a-dozen words were spoken. The landlord, when he found himself in the kitchen again, alone with Fandor, could not hide his surprise. “For the last twenty years,” he declared, “I’ve had wedding-parties here, I’ve known customers of every sort and kind, but anything like those folks yonder—never! They couldn’t be more dismal if it was a funeral they’d been at!” Meanwhile, Ascott sat deep in thought; he was realizing the appalling folly he had been guilty of in marrying Nini Guinon. “How could I ever for one single instant have entertained such an idea ... and put it into execution?”