“Oh! of course, you were charmed,” broke she in; “and so you ought to be, when one performs so dangerous a trick to amuse you. The audience always applauds the rope-dancer that perils his neck; and you 'd be worse than ungrateful not to screen me when I 'm satirized. But it may relieve somewhat the load of obligation when I say that I utter these things just to please myself. I bear the world no ill-will, it is true; but I 'm very fond of laughing at it.” “In the name and on behalf of that respectable community, let me return you my thanks,” said he, bowing. “Remember,” said she, “how little I really know of what I ridicule, and so let my ignorance atone for my ill-nature; and now, to come back, what was it that you were counting so patiently on your fingers? Not _my_ faults, I'm certain, or you'd have had both hands.” “I'm afraid I could scarcely tell you,” said he, “though somehow I feel that if I knew you a very little longer, I could tell you almost anything.” “I wish you could tell me that this pleasant time was coming. What is this?” asked she, as the waiter entered, and presented her with a visiting-card. “Monsieur the Count desires to know if Mademoiselle will receive him,” said the man. “What, how? What does this mean?” exclaimed Beecher, in terror and astonishment. “Yes,” said she, turning to the waiter; “say, 'With pleasure.'” “Gracious mercy!” exclaimed Beecher, “you don't know what you 're doing. Have you seen this person before?” “Never!” “Never heard of him!” “Never,” said she, with a faint smile, for the sight of his terror amused her. “But who is he, then? How has he dared--” “Nay,” said she, holding behind her back the visiting-card, which he endeavored to snatch from her hand,--“this is _my_ secret!” “This is intolerable!” cried Beecher. “What is your father to think of your admitting a person to visit you,--an utter stranger,--a fellow Heaven knows--” At this moment, as if to answer in the most palpable form the question he was propounding, a somewhat sprucely dressed man, middle-aged and comely, entered; and, passing Beecher by with the indifference he might have bestowed on a piece of furniture, advanced to where Lizzy was standing, and, taking her band, pressed it reverently to his lips. So far from resenting the liberty, she smiled most courteously on him, and motioned to him to take a seat on the sofa beside her. “I can't stand this, by Jove!” said Beecher, aloud; while, with an assumption of courage his heart little responded to, he walked straight up to the stranger. “You understand English, I hope?” said he, in very indifferent French. “Not a syllable,” replied the other, in the same language. “I only know 'All right';” and he laughed pleasantly as he uttered the words in an imitation of English.