“How strange it is, all this life of change!” said Lizzy, thoughtfully. “It is not what it seems,” said Beecher; “for the same people are always meeting again and again, now in Italy, now in England. Ah! I see the Cursaal is being lighted up. How jolly it looks through the trees! Look yonder, Lizzy, where all the lamps are glittering. Many a sad night it cost me, gay as it appears.” Mr. Bauer withdrew as the dessert was placed on the table, and they were alone. “Rich fellow that Bauer,” said Beecher; “he lends more money than any Jew in Frankfort. I wonder whether I could n't tempt him to advance me a few hundreds?” “Do you want money, then?” asked she, unsuspectingly. “Want it? No, not exactly, except that every one wants it; people always find a way to spend all they can lay their hands on.” “I don't call that wanting it,” said she, half coldly. “Play me something, Lizzy, here's a piano; that Sicilian song,--and sing it.” He held out his hand to lead her to the piano, but she only drew her shawl more closely around her, and never moved. “Or, if you like better, that Styrian dance,” continued he. “I am not in the humor,” said she, calmly. “Not in the humor? Well, be in the humor. I was never in better spirits in my life. I would n't change with Davis when he won the Czarewitch. Such a dinner as old Bauer gave us, and such wine! and then this coffee, not to speak of the company,--eh, Lizzy?” “Yes, Mr. Bauer was most agreeable.” “I was n't talking of Mr. Bauer, _ma chère_, I was thinking of some one else.” “I did n't know,” said she, with a half-weary sigh. Beecher's cheek flushed up, and he walked to the window and looked out; meanwhile she took up a book and began to read. Along the alley beneath the window troops of people now passed towards the rooms. The hour of play had sounded, and the swell of the band could be heard from the space in front of the Cursaal. As his eyes followed the various groups ascending the steps and disappearing within the building, his imagination pictured the scene inside. There was always a kind of rush to the tables on the last few nights of the season. It was a sort of gamblers' theory that they were “lucky,” and Beecher began to con over to himself all the fortunate fellows who had broken the bank in the last week of a season. “I told old Grog I 'd not go,” muttered he; “I pledged myself I'd not enter the rooms; but, of course, that meant I 'd not play,--it never contemplated mere looking in and seeing who was there: rather too hard if I were not to amuse myself, particularly when”--here he turned a glance towards Lizzy--“I don't perceive any very great desire to make the evening pass pleasantly here. Ain't you going to sing?” asked he, half angrily. “If you wish it,” said she, coldly. “Nor play?” continued he, as though not hearing her reply. “If you desire it,” said she, rising, and taking her place at the piano.