a race or a "safe thing with the cards"--was
not exactly a meet travelling-companion, and he fretted over the fatal
weakness that had induced his acceptance of him. They had only just
started, and their troubles had already begun! Even if Davis himself
were there, matters might not be so bad. Grog was always ready to "turn
out" and have a shot with any one. It was a sort of pastime he rather
liked when nothing else was stirring, it seemed like keeping his hand
in; but, confound the fellow! he had gone off, and left in his place one
who had a horror of hair-triggers, and shuddered at the very thought of
a shot-wound.

He was far too conversant with the habits of _demi-monde_ existence not
to see that the plot was thickening, and fresh dangers clustering round
him. The glances in the street were hourly growing more familiar,--the
looks were half recognitions. Half a dozen times in the morning,
well-dressed and well-bearded strangers had bolted into their
sitting-room in mistake, and while apologizing for their blunder,
delayed unnecessarily long over the explanation.

The waiter significantly mentioned that Prince Bottoffsky was then
stopping at the hotel, with seven carriages and eighteen servants. The
same intelligent domestic wondered they never went to see Count Czapto
witch's camellias,--"he had sent a bouquet of them that very day to her
Ladyship." And Beecher groaned in his spirit as the fellow produced it.

"I see how it's all to end," muttered he, as he paced the room, unable
any longer to conceal the misery that was consuming him. "One of those
confounded foreigners will come swaggering up to talk to her on the
Promenade, and then I'm 'in for it.' It's all Davis's fault. It's
all _her_ fault. Why can't she look like other people,--dress like
them,--walk like them? What stuff and nonsense it is for _her_ to be
going about the world like a Princess Royal! It was only last night she
wore a Brussels lace shawl at the opera that cost five thousand francs;
and when it caught on a nail in the box and was torn, she laughed, and
said, 'Annette will be charmed with this disaster, for she was always
coveting this lace, and wondering when she was to have it.' That's the
fine 'bring-ing-up' old Grog is so proud of! If she were a Countess in
her own right, with ten thousand a year, she 'd be a bad bargain!"

Ah, Beecher! your heart never went with you when you made this cruel
speech; you uttered it in spleen and bitterness