She was singing at the piano, all alone, as he entered; the room, as usual, brilliantly lighted up as if to receive company, rare flowers and rich plants grouped tastefully about, and “Daisy”--for she looked that name on this occasion--in one of those charming “toilettes” whose consummate skill it is to make the most costly articles harmonize into something that seems simplicity itself. She wore a fuchsia in her hair, and another--only this last was of coral and gold elaborately and beautifully designed--on the front of her dress, and, except these, nothing more of ornament. “Tutore mio,” said she, gayly, as he entered, “you have treated me shamefully; for, first of all, you were engaged to drive with me to the Kreutz Berg, and, secondly, to take me to the opera, and now, at half-past nine, you make your appearance. How is this, Monsieur? _Expliquez-vous_.” “Shall I tell the truth?” said he. “By all means, if anything so strange should n't embarrass you.” “Well, then, I forgot all about both the drive and the opera. It's all very well to laugh,” said he, in a tone of half pique; “young ladies, with no weightier cares on their hearts than whether they ought to wear lilac or green, have very little notion of a man's anxieties. They fancy that life is a thing of white and red roses, soft music and bouquets; but it ain't.” “Indeed! are you quite sure?” asked she, with an air of extreme innocence. “I suspect I am,” said he, confidently; “and there's not many a man about town knows more of it than I do.” “And now, what may be the cares, or, rather, for I don't want to be curious, what sort of cares are they that oppress that dear brain? Have you got any wonderful scheme for the amelioration of mankind to which you see obstacles? Are your views in politics obstructed by ignorance or prejudice? Have you grand notions about art for which the age is not ripe; or are you actually the author of a wonderful poem that nobody has had taste enough to appreciate?” “And these are your ideas of mighty anxieties, Miss Lizzy?” said he, in a tone of compassionate pity. “By Jove! how I'd like to have nothing heavier on my heart than the whole load of them.” “I think you have already told me you never were crossed in love?” “Well, nothing serious, you know. A scratch or so, as one may say, getting through the bushes, but never a cropper,--nothing like a regular smash.” “It would seem to me, then, that you have enjoyed a singularly fortunate existence, and been just as lucky in life as myself.” Beecher started at the words. What a strange chaos did they create within him! There is no tracing the thoughts that came and went, and lost themselves in that poor bewildered head. The nearest to anything like, consistency was the astonishment he felt that she--Grog Davis's daughter--should ever imagine she had drawn a prize in the world's lottery.