“Yes, Madame; another week will close the rooms. All are hastening away to their winter quarters,—Rome, Paris, or Vienna.”
“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.