Number 3, that is Major Noltitz, is seated in front of numbers 9 and 10, the two Chinese to whom I have just given numbers in my notebook.

As to the fat German, number 6, he has already got his long nose into his soup plate.

I see also that the Guard Popol, number 7, has his place at the foot of the table.

The other passengers, Europeans and Asiatics, are installed, _passim_ with the evident intention of doing justice to the repast.
Ah! I forgot my number 8, the disdainful gentleman whose name I don't yet know, and who seems determined to find the Russian cookery inferior to the English.
I also notice with what attention Monsieur Caterna looks after his wife, and encourages her to make up for the time lost when she was unwell on board the _Astara_.

He keeps her glass filled, he chooses the best pieces for her, etc.
"What a good thing it is," I hear him say, "that we are not to leeward of the Teuton, for there would be nothing left for us!" He is to windward of him--that is to say, the dishes reach him before they get to the baron, which, however, does not prevent his clearing them without shame.
The observation, in sea language, made me smile, and Caterna, noticing it, gave me a wink with a slight movement of the shoulder toward the baron.
It is evident that these French people are not of high distinction, they do not belong to the upper circles; but they are good people, I will answer for it, and when we have to rub shoulders with compatriots, we must not be too particular in Turkestan.
The dinner ends ten minutes before the time fixed for our departure.
The bell rings and we all make a move for the train, the engine of which is blowing off steam.
Mentally, I offer a last prayer to the God of reporters and ask him not to spare me adventures.