“Mr. Twining,—Adderley Twining, sir; that's the man can just win what and when and how he pleases.”
“Don't tell me that, Bauer; he has n't got the secret. If Twining wins, it 's chance,—mere chance, just as you might win.”
“It may be so, your Excellency.”
“I tell you, Bauer,—I know it as a fact,—there's just one man in Europe has the martingale, and here's to his health.”
Mr. Bauer was too well skilled in his calling not to guess in whose honor the glass was drained, and smiled a gracious recognition of the toast.
“And your pretty people, Herr Bauer,” broke in Lizzy,—“who were your great beauties this season?”
“We had nothing remarkable, Madame,” said he, bowing.
“No, Master Bauer,” broke in Beecher; “for the luck and the good looks I suspect you should have gone somewhere else this summer.”
Bauer bowed his very deepest acknowledgment. Too conscious of what became him in his station to hazard a flattery in words, he was yet courtier enough to convey his admiration by a look of most meaning deference.
“I conclude that the season is nigh over,” said Lizzy, half languidly, as she looked out on the moonlit promenade, where a few loungers were lingering.