“Er ... er ... highly flattered ... er ... er ... what a charming garden!” stuttered Fleurissoire, finding speech and silence equally embarrassing.
“Soaked enough!” cried the Cardinal. “Hullo, someone! Take away this tub! Assunta!”
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.