If Lienstahl's popularity was great, he only shared a very humble portion of public attention when they appeared at the _table d'hote_. There Lizzy Davis attracted every look, and the fame of her beauty was already wide-spread. Such was the eagerness to obtain place at the table that the most extravagant bribes were offered for a seat, and a well-known elegant of Vienna actually paid a waiter five louis to cede his napkin to him and let him serve in his stead. Beecher was anything but gratified at these demonstrations. If his taste was offended, his fears were also excited. “Something bad must come of it,” was his own muttered reflection; and as they retired after dinner to take their coffee, he showed very palpably his displeasure. “Eh, _caro mio_,--all right?” said the Count, gayly, as he threw an arm over his shoulder. “No, by Jove!--all wrong. I don't like it. It's not the style of thing I fancy.” And here his confusion overwhelmed him, and he stopped abruptly; for the Count, seating himself at the piano, and rattling off a lively prelude, began a well-known air from a popular French vaudeville, of which the following is a rude version:-- “With a lovely face beside you, You can't walk this world far, But from those who 've closely eyed you, Comes the question, Who are you? And though Dowagers will send you Cutting looks and glances keen, The men will comprehend you When you say, 'C'est ma cousine.'” He was preparing for the second verse when Lizzy entered the room, and, turning at once to her, he poured forth some sentences with all that voluble rapidity he possessed. “So,” said she, addressing Beecher, “it seems that you are shocked or horrified, or your good taste is outraged, by certain demonstrations of admiration for me exhibited by the worthy public of this place; and, shall I own to you, I liked it I thought it very nice, and very flattering, and all that, until I thought it was a little--a very little, perhaps, but still a little--impertinent Was that your opinion?” There was a blunt frankness about this question, uttered in such palpable honesty of intention that Beecher felt overwhelmed at once. “I don't know the Continent like your friend there. I can't pretend to offer you advice and counsel like him; but if you really ask me, I 'd say, 'Don't dine below any more; don't go to the rooms of an evening; don't frequent the Promenade--“' “What would you say to my taking the veil, for I fancy I 've some vocation that way?” And then, turning to the Count, she said something in French, at which he laughed immoderately.