A young maidservant came running up, plump and debonair; she took up the tub and emptied it over a flower-bed; her breasts were bursting out of her stays and all a-quiver beneath the muslin of her bodice; she stayed laughing and lingering beside Protos, and the gleam of her bare arms made Fleurissoire uncomfortable. Dorino put the fiaschi down on the table, which had no cloth on it; and the sun, streaming joyously through the wreaths of vine, set its frolic touch of light and shade on the dishes. “We don’t stand upon ceremony here,” said Bardolotti, and he put on the paper hat. “You take my meaning, my dear sir?” In a commanding tone, emphasising the syllables and beating with his fist on the table, Father Cave repeated in his turn: “We don’t stand upon ceremony here!” Fleurissoire gave a knowing wink. Did he take their meaning? Yes, indeed, and there was no need for reiteration; but he racked his brains in vain for a pregnant sentence that would say nothing and convey everything. “Speak! Speak!” prompted Protos. “Make a pun or two. They understand French perfectly.” “Come, come, sit down!” said Ciro. “My dear Cave, stick your knife into this _pastecca_ and slice it up into Turkish crescents. Are you one of those persons, Monsieur de la Fleurissoire, who prefer the pretentious melons of the north--prescots--cantaloups--whatnots--to our streaming Italian watermelons?” “Nothing, I’m sure, could come up to this--but please allow me to refrain; I’m feeling a bit squeamish,” said Amédée, who was still heaving with repugnance at the recollection of the druggist. “Well, then, some figs at any rate! Dorino has just picked them.” “No, not any either. Excuse me.” “That’s bad! That’s bad! Make a pun or two,” whispered Protos in his ear. Then aloud: “We must dose that squeamish stomach of yours with a little wine and get it ready for the turkey. Assunta, fill our worthy guest’s glass!” Amédée was obliged to pledge his hosts and drink more than he was accustomed to; this, added to the heat and fatigue of the day, soon fuddled him. He joked with less effort. Protos made him sing; his voice was shrill but it enraptured his audience. Assunta wanted to kiss him. And yet from the depths of his poor battered faith there rose a sickening and undefinable distress; he laughed so as not to cry. He admired Cave’s easy naturalness.... Who but Fleurissoire and the Cardinal could ever have imagined that he was playing a part? Bardolotti’s dissimulation and self-possession were for that matter, no whit inferior to the _abbé’s_, and he laughed and applauded and lewdly jostled Dorino, when Cave, upsetting Assunta in his arms, nuzzled her with his face; and then, as Fleurissoire, with a bursting heart, bent towards Cave and murmured: “How you must be suffering!” Cave seized his hand behind Assunta’s back and pressed it silently, his head turned aside and his eyes cast up to Heaven. Then, rising abruptly, Cave clapped his hands: