They sipped their wine under the trellised vines, and smoked their cigars in an atmosphere fragrant with the jessamine and the rose, the crystal river eddying along at their feet, and the purple mountain glowing in the last tints of declining day. “We want Lizzy to enliven us,” said Davis, after a long silence on both sides. “We 're dull and heavy without her.”
“By Jove! it does make a precious difference whether she's here or not,” said Beecher, earnestly.
“There's a light-heartedness about that girl does one good,” said Davis, as he puffed his cigar. “And she's no fool, either.”
“I should think she's not,” muttered Beecher, half indignantly.
“It could n't be supposed she should know life like you or me, for instance; she hasn't seen the thing,—never mixed with it; but let the time come that she shall take her part in the comedy, you 'll see whether she 'll not act it cleverly.”
“She has head for anything!” chimed in Beecher.
“Ay, and what they call tact too. I don't care what company you place her in; take her among your duchesses to-morrow, and see if she'll not keep her own place,—and that a good one.”
Beecher sighed, but it was not in any despondency.
And now a long silence ensued; not a sound heard save the light noise of the bottle as it passed between them, and the long-drawn puffs of smoke that issued from their lips.
“What did you do with Stein? Did he give you the money?” asked Davis, at last.