his own
muttered reflection; and as they retired after dinner to take their
coffee, he showed very palpably his displeasure.

"Eh, _caro mio_,--all right?" said the Count, gayly, as he threw an arm
over his shoulder.

"No, by Jove!--all wrong. I don't like it. It's not the style of thing I
fancy." And here his confusion overwhelmed him, and he stopped abruptly;
for the Count, seating himself at the piano, and rattling off a lively
prelude, began a well-known air from a popular French vaudeville, of
which the following is a rude version:--

"With a lovely face beside you,
You can't walk this world far,
But from those who 've closely eyed you,
Comes the question, Who are you?

And though Dowagers will send you
Cutting looks and glances keen,
The men will comprehend you
When you say, 'C'est ma cousine.'"

He was preparing for the second verse when Lizzy entered the room, and,
turning at once to her, he poured forth some sentences with all that
voluble rapidity he possessed.

"So," said she, addressing Beecher, "it seems that you are shocked or
horrified, or your good taste is outraged, by certain demonstrations
of admiration for me exhibited by the worthy public of this place;
and, shall I own to you, I liked it I thought it very nice, and very
flattering, and all that, until I thought it was a little--a very
little, perhaps, but still a little--impertinent Was that your opinion?"

There was a blunt frankness about this question, uttered in such
palpable honesty of intention that Beecher felt overwhelmed at once.

"I don't know the Continent like your friend there. I can't pretend to
offer you advice and counsel like him; but if you really ask me, I 'd
say, 'Don't dine below any more; don't go to the rooms of an evening;
don't frequent the Promenade--"'

"What would you say to my taking the veil, for I fancy I 've some
vocation that way?" And then, turning to the Count, she said something
in French, at which he laughed immoderately.

Whether vexed with himself or with her, or, more probably still, annoyed
by not being able to understand what passed in a foreign language,
Beecher took his hat and left the room. Without his ever suspecting it,
a new pang was just added to his former griefs, and he was jealous! It
is very rare that a man begins by confessing a sense of jealousy to his
own heart; he usually ascribes the dislike he feels to a rival to some
defec