"Signor Guglielmo è sempre buffo," said the cook.
"That's it—buffo, buffo," cried Franck, striking the table with his fist. His smile had already turned somewhat idiotic, and he seemed to think "buffo" meant "to sing."
"Cosa vuole sentire?" asked Brambilla.
"'Addio mia bella Napoli,'" suggested Willy, "or anything you like, Mr. Brambilla."
"What does 'like' mean?" asked Franck. "I have heard the word so often."
"Would you believe," Willy said to Frederick, "that that ox has been here over a year and doesn't know a word of English?"
"'Deutschland, Deutschland über alles!'" Franck began to sing.
"Goodness gracious!" said Willy. "His toothache has begun to bother him again."
"'Ich weiss nicht, was soll es bedeuten,'" sang Franck.
"But I do!" cried Willy. "Silentium! When Franck begins to sing and Lobkowitz to yawn and Ritter empties his first glass on the table-cloth, we'll soon be lying stretched out under the table."