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                            DAISY MILLER

     At  the  little  town  of  Vevey,  in  Switzerland,  there  is  a
     particularly comfortable hotel.  There are,  indeed, many hotels;
     for the entertainment of tourists is the business of  the  place,
     which, as many travellers  will remember, is seated upon the edge
     of  a remarkably blue lake - a lake that it behoves every tourist
     to  visit.  The shore of the  lake presents an  unbroken array of
     establishments of this order, of every category, from the  'grand
     hotel'  of  the  newest fashion,  with  a  chalk-white  front,  a
     hundred balconies, and  a dozen flags  flying from  its roof,  to
     the little Swiss  "pension"  [boarding house] of an  eldler  day,
     with its  name inscribed  in German-looking lettering upon a pink
     or yellow  wall, and an awkward summer-house in  the angle of the
     garden.   One of  the  hotels at Vevey, however,  is famous, even
     classical,  being   distinguished   from  many   of  its  upstart
     neighbours by an  air  both  of luxury  and of maturity.  In this
     region, in the month of June,  American travellers  are extremely
     numerous;  it maybe said,  indeed,  that  Vevey assumes  at  this
     period some of the characteristics of an American
     watering-place.   There are  sights  and  sounds  which  evoke  a
     vision,  an  echo, of  Newport and Saratoga.  There is a flitting
     hither  and  thither  of  'stylish' young  girls, a  rustling  of
     muslin flounces, a rattle of dance-music in the morning  hours, a
     sound  of high-pitched  voices  at all  times.   You  receive  an
     impression  of  these things at  the  excellent inn of the  Trois
     Couronnes, and  are transported in fancy to the Ocean House or to
     Congress Hall but at the Trois  Couronnes it must be added  there
     are  other   features  that  are  much  at  variance  with  these
     suggestions: neat German  waiters, who  look  like secretaries of
     legation;  Russian  princesses  sitting  in  the  garden;  little
     Polish  boys  walking  about,  held  by  the  hand,   with  their
     governors; a  view of the snowy crest of the Dent du Midi and the
     picturesque towers of the Castle of Chillon.

     I  hardly know  whether it was the analogies  or  the differences
     that were uppermost in the mind of a young American,  who, two or
     three  years  ago, sat in  the  garden  of  the Trois  Couronnes,
     looking about  him, rather idly, at some of  the graceful objects
     I  have mentioned.   It  was  a beautiful summer morning, and  in
     whatever  fashion the young American looked at  things, they must
     have seemed to him charming.   He  had come from  Geneva  the day
     before, by the  little steamer,  to see his aunt, who was staying
     at  the hotel-  Geneva  having  been for a long time his place of
     residence.  But his aunt had a  headache─  his  aunt  had  almost
     always a  headache  ─  and  now  she was  shut  up in  her  room,
     smelling camphor, so that he was at liberty  to wander about.  He
     was some  seven-and-twenty  years of age; when his  friends spoke
     of  him, they  usually  said that he was  at  Geneva, 'studying'.
     When  his enemies spoke of him they said ─ but, after all, he had
     no enemies; he was an extremely amiable fellow,  and  universally
     liked.  What  I should say is,  simply, that when certain persons
     spoke  of him they  affirmed that the reason of his  spending  so
     much time  at Geneva was that he  was extremely devoted to a lady
     who lived  there─ a foreign lady  ─ a person older  than himself.
     Very few Americans ─ indeed I think  none ─  had ever  seen  this
     lady,  about  whom  there   were   some  singular  stories.   But
     Winterbourne had an  old attachment for the little metropolis  of
     Calvinism;  he  had been put to school there  as  a  boy, and  he
     had afterwards gone to college  there ─  circumstances which  had
     led  to his forming a great  many  youthful friendships.  Many of
     these he had  kept, and they were a source of great  satisfaction
     to him.   After knocking at his aunt's door and learning that she
     was indisposed, he had  taken a  walk about the town, and then he
     had come in to his breakfast.  He had now finished his breakfast,
     but he was drinking a  small cup of coffee, which had been served
     to him  on a little table in the garden by one of the waiters who
     looked like an attaché.  At last he finished his coffee and lit a
     cigarette.   Presently  a small boy came walking along the path ─
     an urchin of nine or  ten.  The child, who was diminutive for his
     years, had  an aged expression of countenance, a pale complexion,
     and sharp little  features.   He was dressed  in  knickerbockers,
     with red stockings, which displayed his poor little
     spindleshanks; he also  wore a brilliant  red cravat.  He carried
     in  his  hand  a long  alpenstock,  the  sharp  point of which he
     thrust  into everything  that he approached ─ the flowerbeds, the
     garden-benches, the  trains of the  ladies' dresses.  In front of
     Winterbourne  he paused,  looking at  him with  a pair of bright,
     penetrating little eyes.

     'Will you  give me  a lump of sugar?' he asked, in  a sharp, hard
     little voice ─ a voice  immature, and  yet,  somehow, not  young.

     Winterbourne glanced at the small  table near  him, on  which his
     coffee-service rested,  and saw  that  several  morsels  of sugar
     remained.  'Yes,  you may take one,'  he  answered; 'but I  don't
     think sugar is good for little boys.'

     This little boy stepped forward  and carefully selected  three of
     the coveted  fragments, two of which he  buried in  the pocket of
     his knickerbockers, depositing the other  as  promptly in another
     place. He poked his alpenstock, lance-fashion, into
     Winterbourne's  bench, and  tried to crack the lump of sugar with
     his teeth.

     'Oh,  blazes;   it's  har-r-d!'  he  exclaimed,  pronouncing  the
     adjective in a peculiar manner.

     Winterbourne  had   immediately  perceived  that  he  might  have
     the honour of claiming him as a fellow-countryman.

     'Take  care  you don't  hurt  your teeth,'  he  said, paternally,

     'I haven't  got  any teeth to hurt.  They have all  come out.   I
     have only got seven teeth.  My  mother counted them  last  night,
     and one came out right afterwards.  She said she'd slap me if any
     more came out.  I can't help it.  It's this old Europe.  It's the
     climate that makes them  come out.  In America  they  didn't come
     out. It's these hotels.'

     Winterbourne was much amused.  'If you eat three lumps  of sugar,
     your mother will certainly slap you,' he said.

     'She's got to  give  me some  candy,  then,' rejoined  his  young
     interlocutor.  'I can't get  any candy here ─ any American candy.
     American candy's the best candy.'

     'And  are  American  little boys the  best  little  boys?'  asked
     Winterbourne.

     'I   don't  know.   I'm  an  American   boy,'  said  the   child.

     'I  see  you  are  one  of  the   best!'  laughed  'Winterbourne.

     'Are you an American  man?'  pursued this vivacious  infant.  And
     then, on 'Winterbourne's affirmative reply ─

     'American men are the best,' he declared.

     His  companion  thanked him for the  compliment;  and the  child,
     who had now got  astride of his  alpenstock,  stood looking about
     him, while  he  attacked  a  second lump of sugar.  'Winterbourne
     wondered  if he himself had been like this in his infancy, for he
     had been brought to Europe at about this age.

     'Here   comes   my   sister!'  cried  the  child,  in  a  moment.

     'She's an American girl.'

     Winterbourne looked  along the path  and  saw  a  beautiful young
     lady  advancing.  'American girls are  the best  girls,' he said,
     cheerfully, to his young companion.

     'My sister  ain't  the best  the child  declared.  'She's  always
     blowing at me.'

     'I imagine  that is  your fault, not  hers,'  said  Winterbourne.
     The  young  lady meanwhile had drawn near.   She  was dressed  in
     white muslin, with a  hundred frills  and flounces, and knots  of
     pale-coloured ribbon.  She was bare-headed;  but  she balanced in
     her hand a large  parasol, with a deep border of  embroidery; and
     she was  strikingly,  admirably  pretty.  'How  pretty they are!'
     thought  Winterbourne, straightening himself in his  seat,  as if
     he were prepared to rise.

     The young lady  paused in front  of  his bench, near the  parapet
     of the garden, which overlooked the  lake. The little boy had now
     converted  his alpenstock  into a  vaulting-pole,  by the  aid of
     which  he was  springing about in the gravel, and  kicking  it up
     not a little.

     'Randolph,'  said  the   young   lady,  'what  are  you   doing?'

     'I'm going up the Alps,' replied Randolph.   'This  is the  way!'
     And he  gave  another  little  jump, scattering the pebbles about
     Winterbourne's ears.

     'That's   the  way   they   come   down,'   said   'Winterbourne.

     'He's  an  American  man!'  cried  Randolph, in  his  little hard
     voice.

     The  young  lady gave no heed  to  this announcement,  but looked
     straight  at  her  brother.  'Well, I guess  you  had  better  be
     quiet,' she simply observed.

     It  seemed  to  Winterbourne   that  he  had  been  in  a  manner
     presented.   He  got  up  and  stepped  slowly towards the  young
     girl, throwing  away his cigarette.  'This little boy and I  have
     made acquaintance,' he said, with  great civility.  In Geneva, as
     he had  been  perfectly aware, a young man was not at  liberty to
     speak to a young unmarried lady except under certain rarely occur
     ring  conditions; but here,  at  Vevey, what conditions could  be
     better than these?─ a  pretty American girl coming  and  standing
     in  front  of  you  in  a  garden.  This  pretty  American  girl,
     however,  on hearing  Winterbourne's observation,  simply glanced
     at  him; she then turned her head and looked over the parapet, at
     the lake and the opposite mountains.  He  wondered whether he had
     gone too far;  but he decided that he must advance farther rather
     than retreat.  While  he  was thinking of something else  to say,
     the young lady turned to the little boy again.

     'I should like  to  know  where  you  got  that pole,' she  said.

     'I bought it!' responded Randolph.

     'You  don't mean  to say  you're  going  to take  it  to  Italy!'

     'Yes,  I  am going  to  take  it  to Italy!'  the child declared.

     The young girl glanced  over the front of her dress, and smoothed
     out a knot or two  of ribbon.  Then she rested  her eyes upon the
     prospect  again.   'Well,  I  guess  you  had   better  leave  it
     somewhere,' she said, after a moment.

     'Are  you  going to Italy?' Winterbourne inquired, in  a  tone of
     great respect.

     The young lady  glanced  at him again.  'Yes, sir,' she  replied.
     And she said nothing more.

     'Are you ─ a  ─ going over the  Simplon?' Winterbourne pursued, a
     little embarrassed.

     'I  don't know,'  she  said.   'I  suppose  it's  some  mountain.
     Randolph, what mountain are we going over?'

     'Going where?' the child demanded.

     'To Italy,' Winterbourne explained.

     'I don't know,' said Randolph.  'I don't want to go to  Italy.  I
     want to go to America.'

     'Oh,  Italy  is  a  beautiful  place!'  rejoined  the  young man.

     'Can   you  get   candy   there?'   Randolph   loudly   inquired.

     'I  hope  not,' said his sister.  'I guess  you  have  had enough
     candy, and mother thinks so too.'

     'I haven't  had any for  ever so  long ─ for  a  hundred  weeks!'
     cried the boy, still jumping about.

     The young lady inspected  her flounces  and smoothed her  ribbons
     again; and  Winterbourne presently risked an observation upon the
     beauty of the view.  He was ceasing to be embarrassed, for he had
     begun  to perceive that  she  was not  in the  least  embarrassed
     herself.   There had not been  the slightest  alteration  in  her
     charming  complexion;  she  was  evidently  neither  offended nor
     fluttered.  If  she looked another way  when he spoke to her, and
     seemed not particularly  to hear him, this was simply  her habit,
     her manner.  Yet, as  he  talked a  little more, and pointed  out
     some  of the objects  of  interest in the  view, with  which  she
     appeared  quite  unacquainted, she gradually gave him more of the
     benefit of her  glance; and  then  he  saw  that  this glance was
     perfectly  direct and  unshrinking.  It  was not,  however,  what
     would  have been called an immodest  glance, for the young girl's
     eyes were singularly  honest  and  fresh.  They  were wonderfully
     pretty  eyes;  and, indeed,  Winterbourne  had  not  seen  for  a
     longtime  anything  prettier than his fair countrywoman's various
     features ─ her complexion, her nose, her ears, her teeth.  He had
     a great relish for feminine  beauty; he was addicted to observing
     and  analysing it;  and as regards this young lady's face he made
     several  observations.  It was not at all insipid, but it was not
     exactly  expressive;  and  though   it  was  eminently  delicate,
     Winterbourne mentally accused it ─  very forgivingly  ─ of a want
     of finish.   He  thought it  very possible that Master Randolph's
     sister was a coquette;  he was sure she had  a spirit of her own;
     but in  her bright, sweet, superficial little visage there was no
     mockery,  no  irony.  Before long  it became obvious that she was
     much disposed towards conversation.  She told  him that they were
     going to  Rome for the winter ─ she  and her mother and Randolph.
     She asked him if he was a real American; she wouldn't have  taken
     him for one; he  seemed more like a German  ─ this was said after
     a  little  hesitation,  especially  when  he spoke. Winterbourne,
     laughing, answered  that  he  had  met  Germans  who  spoke  like
     Americans; but that  he had not,  so  far as he remembered met an
     American who spoke like a German.  Then he asked her if she would
     not be more  comfortable in sitting upon  the bench  which he had
     just  quitted.   She  answered  that  she  liked  standing up and
     walking about; but she presently  sat down.  She told him she was
     from New  York State ─ 'if you know where that is'.  Winterbourne
     learned  more  about her by catching hold  of her small, slippery
     brother  and  making  him  stand  a  few  minutes  by  his  side.

     'Tell me your name, my boy,' he said.

     'Randolph C.  Miller,' said the boy, sharply.  'And I'll tell you
     her  name';  and  he  levelled  his  alpenstock  at  his  sister.

     'You  had better wait till you are asked!'  said this young lady,
     calmly.

     'I should like very much  to  know your name,' said Winterbourne.

     'Her  name is  Daisy Miller,'  cried  the child.  'But that isn't
     her real name; that isn't her name on her cards.'

     'It's  a  pity  you haven't  got  one of  my  cards!'  said  Miss
     Miller.

     'Her  real  name  is  Annie  P.   Miller,'  the  boy   went   on.

     'Ask him <his> name,'  said his sister, indicating  Winterbourne.

     But on this  point Randolph   seemed  perfectly  indifferent;  he
     continued to supply information with regard to  his  own  family.
     My father's  name  is  Ezra B.  Miller,' he announced, My  father
     ain't in Europe;  my father's  in  a  better  place than Europe.'

     Winterbourne imagined  for a moment that this  was the  manner in
     which the child had been taught to intimate that   Mr  Miller had
     been removed to the sphere  of  celestial rewards.   But Randolph
     immediately added, 'My  father's  in Schenectady.  He's got a big
     business. My father's rich, you bet.'

     'Well!' ejaculated  Miss Miller, lowering her parasol and looking
     at the embroidered border.   Winterbourne  presently released the
     child, who departed, dragging his alpenstock along the path.  'He
     doesn't like  Europe,'  said  the young  girl.   'He wants to  go
     back.'

     'To Schenectady, you mean?'

     'Yes;  he wants to  go right home.  He hasn't got  any boys here.
     There is one boy here, but  he  always goes round with a teacher;
     they won't let him play.'

     'And your brother  hasn't  any  teacher?' Winterbourne  inquired.

     'Mother thought  of getting  him one, to  travel round  with  us.
     There  was a lady told  her of  a  very good teacher; an American
     lady ─ perhaps  you know her ─  Mrs Sanders.  I  think  she  came
     from Boston.  She told  her of  this teacher, and we  thought  of
     getting him to travel round with us.  But Randolph said he didn't
     want a teacher travelling round with us. He said he wouldn't have
     lessons  when  he was in  the cars.  And we are in the cars about
     half the time.  There was an English  lady we met in the cars ─ I
     think her name was Miss Featherstone;  perhaps you know her.  She
     wanted to  know why  I didn't  give Randolph  lessons  ─ give him
     'instruction',  she called it.  I  guess he  could  give me  more
     instruction  than   I  could  give   him.    He's   very  smart.'

     'Yes,' said Winterbourne; 'he seems very smart.'

     'Mother's  going to get a teacher for  him  as soon as  we get to
     Italy. Can you get good teachers in Italy?'

     'Very good, I should think,' said 'Winterbourne.

     'Or  else she's  going to find some  school.   He ought  to learn
     some more.  He's  only nine.  He's going to college.' And in this
     way  Miss Miller  continued to converse upon  the  affairs of her
     family, and upon other topics.  She sat there with her  extremely
     pretty  hands,  ornamented with  very brilliant rings,  folded in
     her  lap,  and with  her pretty  eyes now  resting  upon those of
     Winterbourne,  now  wandering  over  the  garden, the  people who
     passed by, she had known him a long time. He found it very pleas-
     ant.  It was many years since he had  heard a  young girl talk so
     much.  It  might have been said of this  unknown young  lady, who
     had  come  and  sat  down  beside  him  upon  a bench,  that  she
     chattered.   She was  very  quiet, she sat in a charming tranquil
     attitude;  but  her  lips  and her  eyes  were constantly moving.
     She had  a  soft,  slender,  agreeable  voice,  and  her tone was
     decidedly   sociable.   She  gave   Winterbourne  a  history   of
     her movements  and  intentions,  and  those  of  her  mother  and
     brother, in  Europe,  and enumerated,  in particular, the various
     hotels at  which they had  stopped.   'That English  lady  in the
     cars,' she said ─ 'Miss Featherstone  ─ asked me if we didn't all
     live in hotels  in America.   l  told her I had never been  in so
     many  hotels in my life as since I came to Europe.  I  have never
     seen so many─  it's  nothing but hotels.' But Miss Miller did not
     make this remark with  a querulous accent; she appeared to be  in
     the  best humour with everything.  She  declared  that the hotels
     were very good,  when once you got used  to their  ways,and  that
     Europe  was perfectly  sweet.  She  was not  disappointed─  not a
     bit.  Perhaps  it was because  she  had heard  so  much  about it
     before.  She had  ever so many  intimate  friends  that had  been
     there ever  so  many times.  And  then she had had ever  so  many
     dresses and things from Paris.  Whenever she put on a Paris dress
     she felt as if she were in Europe.

     'It was a kind of wishing-cap,' said 'Winterbourne.

     'Yes,' said  Miss  Miller, without  examining  this  analogy; 'it
     always made me wish I was here.  But I needn't have done that for
     dresses.  I am sure they send all the pretty ones to America; you
     see  the most  frightful  things  here.  The  only thing  I don't
     like,' she proceeded, 'is the society.  There  isn't any society;
     or, if there is, I don't know where it keeps itself.  Do you?   I
     suppose  there is  some  society  somewhere,  but I  haven't seen
     anything of it.  I'm very fond of society, and I have always  had
     a great deal of it.  I don't mean only in Schenectady, but in New
     York.   I used to go to New York every winter.  In New York I had
     lots of  society.   Last winter I had seventeen dinners given me;
     and  three of them were  by  gentlemen,' added Daisy  Miller.  'I
     have  more  friends   in  New  York  than  in  Schenectady─  more
     gentlemen friends, and  more young lady friends too,' she resumed
     in a moment. She paused again for  an instant; she was looking at
     Winterbourne  with  all her prettiness in her lively  eyes and in
     her light, slightly monotonous smile.   'I  have always had,' she
     said, 'a great deal of gentlemen's society.'

     Poor   Winterbourne   was   amused,  perplexed,   and   decidedly
     charmed.  He had  never yet heard a young girl express herself in
     just  this fashion;  never, at least, save  in cases where to say
     such things seemed a kind of demonstrative evidence of  a certain
     laxity of deportment.  And yet was he to accuse Miss Daisy Miller
     of actual  or potential "inconduite" [impropriety],  as they said
     at  Geneva?  He felt that he had  lived at Geneva so long that he
     had  lost  a  good  deal;  he  had become  dishabituated  to  the
     American tone. Never, indeed, since  he had  grown old enough  to
     appreciate  things,  had he encountered a young American girl  of
     so  pronounced  a type as this.  Certainly she was very charming;
     but how deucedly sociable!  Was she simply a pretty girl from New
     York State  ─ were they  all like that,the pretty girls who had a
     good deal of gentlemen's  society?  Or  was she also a designing,
     an  audacious,  an  unscrupulous young person?   Winterbourne had
     lost his instinct in this  matter, and his reason  could not help
     him.  Miss Daisy  Miller looked extremely innocent.  Some  people
     had told him that,  after  all, American  girls  were exceedingly
     innocent;  and others had  told him that,  after  all,  they were
     not.  He  was inclined to think Miss Daisy Miller was a flirt  ─a
     pretty American flirt.   He had never,as yet,  had  any relations
     with young  ladies  of this  category.  He  had  known,  here  in
     Europe, two or three women─ persons older than Miss Daisy Miller,
     and  provided,  for  respectability's  sake, with  husbands ─ who
     were great  coquettes  ─ dangerous,  terrible  women,  with  whom
     one's  relations  were liable to take a  serious turn.   But this
     young  girl  was  not  a  coquette  in that  sense; she was  very
     unsophisticated;  she   was   only   a  pretty   American  flirt.
     Winterbourne was almost  grateful  for  having  found the formula
     that applied to Miss Daisy Miller.  He leaned  back in his  seat;
     he remarked to himself that she had the most charming nose he had
     ever  seen; he  wondered  what were  the  regular conditions  and
     limitations of one's intercourse with a pretty American flirt. It
     presently became apparent that he was on the way to learn.

     'Have you  been  to  that  old  castle?'  asked the  young  girl,
     pointing  with  her parasol  to  the  far-gleaming  walls  of the
     Château de Chillon.

     'Yes, formerly, more than once,' said Winterbourne.

     'You too, I suppose, have seen it?'

     'No; we haven't been there.  I want  to go there  dreadfully.  Of
     course I mean to go there.  I wouldn't go away  from here without
     having seen that old castle.'

     'It's  a  very  pretty  excursion,' said  Winterbourne, 'and very
     easy to make.  You can drive,  you know,  or you can  go  by  the
     little steamer.'

     'You can go in the cars,' said Miss Miller.

     'Yes;   you  can   go   in   the   cars,'Winterbourne   assented.

     'Our  courier  says they take  you right up to the  castle,'  the
     young girl  continued.  'We  were going last week; but my  mother
     gave  out.   She  suffers  dreadfully from  dyspepsia.   She said
     she couldn't go.  Randolph wouldn't go either; he says he doesn't
     think much of old castles.  But I guess we'll go this week, if we
     can get Randolph.'

     'Your  brother   is  not   interested  in   ancient   monuments?'
     Winterbourne inquired, smiling.

     'He says he  don't care much about old castles.  He's only  nine.
     He  wants  to stay at the  hotel.  Mother's afraid to  leave  him
     alone'  and the courrier  won't stay with him; so we haven't been
     to many places.  But it will be too bad if we don't go up there.'
     And  Miss  Miller  pointed  again  at  the  Château  de  Chillon.

     'I  should  think  it  might  be  arranged,'  said  Winterbourne.
     'Couldn't  you  get someone  to  stay ─ for the afternoon  ─ with
     Randolph?'

     Miss Miller  looked  at him a moment; and then, very  placidly  ─
     'I  wish  you  would  stay  with  him!'  she said.   Winterbourne
     hesitated  a moment.   'I  would  much rather go to  Chillon with
     you.'

     'With  me?'  asked the  young  girl,  with  the  same  placidity.

     She  didn't rise, blushing, as a young girl at Geneva would  have
     done;  and yet  Winterbourne,  conscious that he  had  been  very
     bold, thought it possible she was offended. With your mother,' he
     answered very respectfully.

     But  it seemed  that both his audacity and his  respect were lost
     upon Miss Daisy Miller.  'I guess my mother won't go, after all,'
     she  said.   'she don't like to ride round in the afternoon.  But
     did you really mean what you said just now;  that  you would like
     to go up there?'

     'Most earnestly,' Winterbourne declared.

     'Then  we may  arrange  it.  If mother will stay with Randolph, I
     guess Eugenio will.'

     'Eugenio?' the young man inquired.

     'Eugenio's our  courier.  He doesn't like  to stay with Randolph;
     he's the most fastidious man I ever  saw.   But  he's a  splendid
     courier.  I  guess he'll stay at  home  with  Randolph  if mother
     does, and then we can go to the castle.'

     Winterbourne reflected for  an instant as  lucidly  as possible ─
     'we'  could  only mean  Miss  Daisy  Miller  and  himself.   This
     programme seemed  almost too agreeable for credence;  he felt  as
     if he ought to kiss the  young lady's  hand.   Possibly  he would
     have done so ─ and quite spoiled the project;  but at this moment
     another person ─ presumably Eugenio ─ appeared.  A tall, handsome
     man, with  superb  whiskers,  wearing a velvet morning-coat and a
     brilliant  watch-chain, approached  Miss Miller, looking  sharply
     at her  companion.   'Oh, Eugenio!' said  Miss  Miller,  with the
     friendliest accent.

     Eugenio had  looked at Winterbourne  from  head  to foot,  he now
     bowed gravely  to the  young lady.  'I have the honour  to inform
     mademoiselle that luncheon is upon the table.'

     Miss  Miller  slowly  rose.    'See  here,  Eugenio,'  she  said.

     'I'm going to that old castle, anyway.'

     'To   the   Château   de  Chillon,  mademoiselle?'  the   courier
     inquired, 'Mademoiselle has  made arrangements?' he added,  in  a
     tone which struck Winterbourne as very impertinent.

     Eugenio's  tone  apparently  threw,  even  to  Miss Miller's  own
     apprehension, a slightly  ironical  light upon the  young  girl's
     situation.  She turned to  Winterbourne,  blushing  a little ─  a
     very little. 'You won't back out?' she said.

     'I shall not be happy till we go!' he protested.

     'And you are  staying in this hotel?' she went on.  'And you  are
     really an American?'

     The  courier  stood looking  at Winterbourne,  offensively.   The
     young man, at  least, thought his manner of looking an offence to
     Miss  Miller; it conveyed  an  imputation  that she  'picked  up'
     acquaintances.  'I shall  have  the honour of presenting to you a
     person who will  tell  you all  about me,'  he  said smiling, and
     referring to his aunt.

     'Oh  well,  we'll go  some day,' said Miss Miller.  And  she gave
     him a smile  and turned  away.  She put up her parasol and walked
     back to the inn beside Eugenio.

     Winterbourne stood  looking after her;  and  as  she moved  away,
     drawing  her muslin  furbelows  [frills] over the gravel, said to
     himself that she  had the  "tournure"  [bearing]  of  a princess.


                                    2


     He had, however, engaged  to do  more than  proved  feasible,  in
     promising  to  present his  aunt,  Mrs Costello,  to  Miss  Daisy
     Miller. As soon as the former lady had got better of her headache
     he  waited upon  her  in her  apartment;  and, after  the  proper
     inquiries in  regard  to her  health, he  asked  her  if  she had
     observed,  in  the  hotel,  an  American  family  ─  a  mamma,  a
     daughter, and a little boy.

     'And a  courier?'  said Mrs Costello.  'Oh, yes, I have  observed
     them.  Seen them ─ heard them  ─  and kept out of their way.' Mrs
     Costello  was   a  widow  with   a  fortune;  a  person  of  much
     distinction,  who frequently intimated that, if she  were  not so
     dreadfully liable to  sick-headaches,  she  would  probably  have
     left a deeper impress upon her time.  She had a long pale face, a
     high  nose, and a great deal of very  striking white hair,  which
     she wore  in large puffs and "rouleaux" [curlers] over the top of
     her head.  She had two sons married  in New York, and another who
     was  now  in  Europe.   This  young  man  was amusing himself  at
     Homburg,  and, though he was on his travels, was rarely perceived
     to  visit  any  particular city  at the  moment  selected by  his
     mother for her own appearance there.  Her nephew, who had come up
     to Vevey expressly to  see her, was therefore more attentive than
     those who, as she  said, were nearer  to her.  He  had imbibed at
     Geneva the idea that one must  always be attentive to one's aunt.
     Mrs  Costello  had  not seen  him  for  many years, and  she  was
     greatly   pleased  with  him,  manifesting  her   approbation  by
     initiating him  into  many of  the  secrets  of that  social sway
     which, as  she  gave  him  to  understand,  she  exerted  in  the
     American capital.  She admitted that she was very exclusive; but,
     if he were acquainted with New York, he would see that one had to
     be.   And her  picture of the minutely hierarchical  constitution
     of  the society of that city, which she presented to him  in many
     different lights,  was,  to  Winterbourne's  imagination,  almost
     oppressively striking.

     He  immediately   perceived,  from  her  tone,  that  Miss  Daisy
     Miller's place in the  social scale  was low.   'I  am afraid you
     don't approve of them,' he said.

     'They are very common,'  Mrs Costello declared.   'They  are  the
     sort  of Americans  that  one  does  one's  duty  by  not  ─  not
     accepting.'

     'Ah, you don't accept them?' said the young man.

     'I can't,  my  dear Frederick.  I would if I could, but I can't.'

     'The young  girl  is  very  pretty,'  said  'Winterbourne,  in  a
     moment.

     'Of course she's pretty. But she is very common.'

     'I  see  what  you mean, of  course,'  said 'Winterbourne,  after
     another pause.

     'She  has that  charming  look that  they  all  have,'  his  aunt
     resumed.   'I can't think where they pick  it up; and she dresses
     in perfection ─ no, you don't know how well she dresses.  I can't
     think where they get their taste.'

     'But, my  dear aunt, she is not,  after all, a  Comanche savage.'

     'She is a young lady,'  said Mrs  Costello, 'who has  an intimacy
     with her mamma's courier.'

     'An  intimacy   with  the  courier?'  the   young  man  demanded.

     'Oh, the mother is just as  bad!  They  treat  the courier like a
     familiar friend  ─ like  a gentleman.  I  shouldn't  wonder if he
     dines with them.  Very  likely  they  have never seen a  man with
     such good manners, such fine  clothes  so  like a gentleman.   He
     probably corresponds to  the  young lady's idea of  a  Count.  He
     sits  with  them in  the  garden,  in  the  evening.   I think he
     smokes.'

     Winterbourne  listened  with interest to  these disclosures; they
     helped  him to make up his mind about Miss  Daisy.  Evidently she
     was  rather wild.  'Well,'  he said, 'I am not a courier, and yet
     she was very, charming to me.

     'You  had  better  have  said at  first,  said Mrs  Costell  with
     dignity, 'that you had made her acquaintance.'

     'We simply met in the garden, and we talked a bit.'

     '"Tout bonnement" [very simply]! And pray what did you say?'

     'I said  I  should  take the liberty  of  introducing her  to  my
     admirable aunt.'

     'I am much obliged to you.'

     'It  was  to  guarantee  my respectability,'  said  Winterbourne.

     'And pray who is to guarantee hers?'

     'Ah, you are  cruel!' said  the young man.   'She's  a very  nice
     girl.'

     'You  don't  say  that  as  if  you  believed  it,'  Mrs Costello
     observed.

     'She  is  completely uncultivated,' Winterbourne  went  on.  'But
     she is wonderfully pretty, and,  in short, she  is very nice.  To
     prove that I believe  it, I  am going  to take her to the Château
     de Chillon.'

     'You two are going off there  together?  I  should say  it proved
     just  the  contrary.  How long  had you known her may I ask, when
     this  interesting   project  was   formed?    You   haven't  been
     twenty-four hours in the house.'

     'I  had  known  her half an  hour!'  said  Winterbourne  smiling.

     'Dear  me!'   cried  Mrs   Costello.   'What  a  dreadful  girl!'

     Her  nephew  was silent for  some  moments.  'You  really  think,
     then,' he  began  earnestly  and  with  a  desire for trustworthy
     information ─  'you  really  think  that─'  But  he paused again.

     'Think what, sir,' said his aunt.

     'That she  is the sort  of young lady who expects a  man ─ sooner
     or later ─ to carry her off?'

     'I haven't the least idea what such young  ladies  expect  a  man
     to do.  But I really think that you  had  better not  meddle with
     little American girls that are uncultivated, as  you  call  them.
     You have lived too long out of the country.   You will be sure to
     make some great mistake. You are too innocent.'

     'My  dear  aunt,  I  am not  so  innocent,'  said   Winterbourne,
     smiling and curling his moustache.

     'You are too guilty, then?'

     Winterbourne  continued  to  curl  his  moustache,  meditatively.
     'You won't let the  poor girl know you then?' he asked  at  last.

     'Is  it literally  true that  she  is going  to  the  Château  de
     Chillon with you?'

     'I think that she fully intends it.'

     'Then,  my dear Frederick,' said  Mrs  Costello, 'I  must decline
     the honour of her acquaintance.  I am an old woman, but  I am not
     too old ─ thank Heaven ─ to be shocked!'

     'But  don't  they  all  do  these  things  ─ the  young  girls in
     America?' Winterbourne inquired.

     Mrs  Costello  stared  a  moment.   'I  should  like  to  see  my
     grand-daughters do them!' she declared, grimly.

     This   seemed  to  throw   some   light  upon  the  matter,   for
     Winterbourne remembered to have heard  that his pretty cousins in
     New York were  tremendous  flirts.   If,  therefore,  Miss  Daisy
     Miller  exceeded  the  liberal  licence allowed  to  these  young
     ladies, it  was probable that anything might  be expected of her.
     Winterbourne  was  impatient to  see her again, and he was  vexed
     with  himself  that, by  instinct, he  should not  appreciate her
     justly.

     Though  he  was  impatient to  see  her, he hardly  knew what  he
     should say to her  about his aunt's refusal  to become acquainted
     with  her; but  he discovered,  promptly enough, that  with  Miss
     Daisy Miller  there  was no great need  of walking on tiptoe.  He
     found her that  evening  in  the garden, wandering about  in  the
     warm starlight,  like an  indolent sylph, and swinging to and fro
     the largest fan he  had ever beheld.  It was ten o'clock.  He had
     dined with  his aunt, had been sitting with her since dinner, and
     had just  taken leave of her  till the morrow.  Miss Daisy Miller
     seemed very  glad to  see him; she  declared it  was  the longest
     evening she had ever passed.

     'Have you been all alone?' he asked.

     'I have  been walking round  with mother.   But mother gets tired
     walking round,' she answered.

     'Has she gone to bed?'

     'No;  she doesn't  like  to  go to  bed,'  said  the young  girl.

     'She doesn't sleep ─ not three hours.  She  says she doesn't know
     how she lives.  She's dreadfully nervous. I guess she sleeps more
     than she thinks.  She's gone somewhere after  Randolph; she wants
     to try to get  him to go to bed.  He doesn't like to go to  bed.'

     'Let us hope she will persuade him,' observed Winterbourne.

     'She will talk to  him all  she can; but he  doesn't like her  to
     talk to him,' said Miss Daisy, opening her fan.   'She's going to
     try to get  Eugenio  to talk  to him.   But  he isn't  afraid  of
     Eugenio.   Eugenio's a splendid courier,  but he can't make  much
     impression  on  Randolph!  I don't believe he'll go to bed before
     eleven.'   It  appeared  that   Randolph's  vigil  was  in   fact
     triumphantly prolonged, for Winterbourne  strolled about with the
     young girl  for some  time without  meeting her mother.  'I  have
     been looking round for that lady you want  to introduce  me  to,'
     his companion  resumed.   'She's   your  aunt.'  Then,   on  Win-
     terbourne's admitting the  fact, and expressing some curiosity as
     to how she had learned  it,  she said she had heard all about Mrs
     Costello  from the  chambermaid.   She  was very quiet  and  very
     "comme  il faut" [proper]; she wore white puffs; she  spoke to no
     one,  and she never  dined at the "table d'hôte"  [at the  dining
     room  versus  at  a  private room].   Every  two days  she  had a
     headache.   'I think that's a  lovely description,  headache  and
     all!' said Miss Daisy, chattering along  in her thin,  gay voice.
     'I want to know her ever  so much.  I  know just what <your> aunt
     would be; I know I should like her.  She would be very exclusive.
     I like a lady to be exclusive;  I'm dying to be exclusive myself.
     'Well,  we are  exclusive,  mother  and  I.   We  don't speak  to
     everyone ─  or they  don't speak to us.  I suppose it's about the
     same thing.  Anyway, I shall  be ever so glad to know your aunt.'

     Winterbourne  was  embarrassed.   'She would  be  most happy,' he
     said,  'but  I  am  afraid  those   headaches  will   interfere.'

     The young girl looked at him  through  the dusk.   'But I suppose
     she doesn't have a headache every day,' she said,
     sympathetically.

     'Winterbourne was silent  a moment.   'She tells me she does,' he
     answered at last ─ not knowing what to say.

     Miss  Daisy  Miller  stopped  and  stood  looking  at  him.   Her
     prettiness was still visible  in the  darkness; she  was  opening
     and closing her enormous fan.  'She doesn't want to know me!' she
     said suddenly. 'Why don't you say so? You needn't be afraid.  I'm
     not afraid!' And she gave a little laugh.

     'Winterbourne  fancied there was  a  tremor in her voice; he  was
     touched, shocked, mortified  by it.  'My  dear  young  lady,'  he
     protested,  'she  knows  no  one.   It's  her  wretched  health.'

     The  young girl  walked  on  a  few steps, laughing still.   'You
     needn't be  afraid,' she repeated.  'Why should she want  to know
     me?' Then she paused again; she was close  to the parapet  of the
     garden, and  in front  of her was the starlit  lake.  There was a
     vague  sheen  upon  its surface,  and in the  distance were dimly
     seen mountain forms.  Daisy Miller looked out upon the mysterious
     prospect, and then she gave another little laugh. 'Gracious!  she
     is exclusive!' she  said.  Winterbourne  wondered whether she was
     seriously wounded, and for a moment almost wished  that her sense
     of injury might be such  as to make it becoming in him to attempt
     to  reassure and  comfort her.  He had a pleasant sense that  she
     would  be very approachable for consolatory  purposes.   He  felt
     then, for the instant, quite ready to sacrifice his aunt,convers-
     ationally;  to  admit  that she  was  a proud, rude woman, and to
     declare  that they needn't mind her.  But  before he had time  to
     commit  himself  to   this  perilous  mixture  of  gallantry  and
     impiety,  the young  lady, resuming her walk, gave an exclamation
     in quite another tone.  'Well; here's mother!  I guess she hasn't
     got Randolph to  go to  bed.' The figure of a lady appeared, at a
     distance, very indistinct in the  darkness, and advancing with  a
     slow  and  wavering  movement.   Suddenly  it  seemed  to  pause.

     'Are  you sure  it is  your mother?  Can  you distinguish her  in
     this thick dusk?' Winterbourne asked.

     'Well!' cried Miss  Daisy Miller, with a laugh,  'I guess I  know
     my own mother.  And  when she  has got on my  shawl, too!  She is
     always wearing my things.'

     The lady in  question, ceasing to  advance, hovered vaguely about
     the spot at which she had checked her steps.

     'I am afraid your  mother  doesn't see  you,' said  Winterbourne.
     'Or perhaps,' he added  ─ thinking, with Miss  Miller,  the  joke
     permissible ─  'perhaps  she  feels  guilty  about  your  shawl.'

     'Oh,  it's   a  fearful  old  thing!'  the  young  girl  replied,
     serenely.  'I told her she could  wear  it.  She won't come here'
     because she sees you.'

     'Ah'  then,'  said  Winterbourne,'  I  had  better  leave   you.'

     'Oh, no; come on!' urged Miss Daisy Miller.

     'I'm  afraid  your  mother  doesn't  approve of  my walking  with
     you.'

     Miss  Miller gave him a  serious glance.  'It isn't for  me; it's
     for  you ─ that is, it's for her.  'Well;  I  don't know who it's
     for!  But mother doesn't like any of my gentlemen friends.  She's
     rightdown timid.   She always  makes  a fuss  if  I  introduce  a
     gentleman.  But  I do  introduce them  ─  almost  always.   If  I
     didn't  introduce  my  gentlemen  friends  to mother,' the  young
     girl  added, in  her little  soft,  flat  monotone,  'I shouldn't
     think I was natural.'

     'To  introduce  me,'  said  Winterbourne,  'you   must   know  my
     name.' And he proceeded to pronounce it.

     'Oh, dear;  I can't  say  all that!'  said his companion, with  a
     laugh.  But by this time they had come up to Mrs  Miller, who, as
     they drew  near,  walked to the  parapet of the garden and leaned
     upon it, looking intently at the lake and  turning  her back upon
     them.  'Mother!' said the young girl, in a tone of decision. Upon
     this the elder lady  turned round.  'Mr 'Winterbourne,' said Miss
     Daisy Miller, introducing  the young man  very frankly and  pret-
     tily.  'Common' she was, ask Mrs Costello had pronounced her; yet
     it  was a wonder to Winterbourne that,  with her  commonness, she
     had a singularly delicate grace.

     Her  mother was  a small, spare,  light person,  with a wandering
     eye, a  very exiguous nose,  and a large forehead, decorated with
     a certain amount of thin, much frizzled hair.  Like her daughter,
     Mrs Miller was dressed with  extreme  elegance; she  had enormous
     diamonds in her ears.  So far as Winterbourne  could observe, she
     gave him no  greeting ─  she  certainly was  not looking at  him.
     Daisy was near  her, pulling  her shawl straight.   'What are you
     doing,  poking round here?' this young lady inquired;  but  by no
     means  with  that harshness of accent which  her choice of  words
     may imply.

     'I  don't  know,' said  her  mother,  turning  towards  the  lake
     again.

     'I  shouldn't  think  you'd  want that  shawl!'  Daisy exclaimed.

     'Well─  I  do!'  her  mother  answered,  with   a  little  laugh.

     'Did you get  Randolph to  go  to  bed?' asked  the  young  girl.

     'No; I couldn't induce him,' said Mrs Miller,  very gently.   'He
     wants to talk to  the waiter.  He likes to talk to  that waiter.'

     'I was telling Mr Winterbourne,' the young  girl went on; and  to
     the young man's  ear her tone might have indicated that  she  had
     been uttering his name all her life.

     'Oh  yes!'  said Winterbourne; 'I have  the  pleasure  of knowing
     your son.'

     Randolph's mamma  was silent; she  turned  her  attention to  the
     lake.  But at last she spoke.  'Well, I don't  see how he lives!'

     'Anyhow,  it isn't  so  bad  as it  was  at  Dover,'  said  Daisy
     Miller.

     'And what occurred at Dover?' Winterbourne asked.

     'He  wouldn't go to bed at all.  I guess he sat up  all night─ in
     the public parlour.  He wasn't in bed at twelve  o'clock:  I know
     that.'

     'It  was  half  past  twelve,'  declared  Mrs  Miller,  with mild
     emphasis.

     'Does  he  sleep  much  during  the day?'  Winterbourne demanded.

     'I guess he doesn't sleep much,' Daisy rejoined.

     'I  wish  he  would!'  said  her  mother.   'It seems  as  if  he
     couldn't.'

     'I think he's real tiresome,' Daisy pursued.

     'Then,  for  some  moments,  there  was  silence.   'Well,  Daisy
     Miller,' said  the  elder  lady, presently,  'I  shouldn't  think
     you'd want to talk against your own brother!'

     'Well,  he  is  tiresome,  mother,'  said  Daisy,  quite  without
     the asperity of a retort.

     'He's only nine,' urged Mrs Miller.

     'Well, he wouldn't  go to  that castle,'  said  the  young  girl.
     'I'm going there with Mr Winterbourne.'

     To this  announcement,  very placidly made, Daisy's mamma offered
     no response.   'Winterbourne  took  for  granted that  she deeply
     disapproved of  the projected excursion; but he  said  to himself
     that she  was  a simple, easily  managed person, and  that a  few
     deferential  protestations    would   take  the  edge  from   her
     displeasure.  'Yes,'he  began; 'your daughter has  kindly allowed
     me the honour of being her guide.'

     Mrs Miller's wandering eyes  attached themselves, with a  sort of
     appearing  air, to  Daisy,  who,  however, strolled  a few  steps
     farther, gently humming to herself.

     'I  presume  you  will  go  in   the  cars,'   said  her  mother.

     'Yes; or in the boat,' said 'Winterbourne.

     'Well, of  course, I  don't know,'  Mrs Miller rejoined.  'I have
     never been to that castle.'

     'It is a  pity  you shouldn't go,' said 'Winterbourne,  beginning
     to feel reassured as  to her  opposition.  And  yet he was  quite
     prepared  to  find  that,  as a matter of course,  she  meant  to
     accompany her daughter.

     'We've been  thinking ever so  much  about  going,' she  pursued;
     'but it seems as  if we couldn't.  Of course Daisy ─ she wants to
     go round.  But there's a lady here ─ I don't  know her name ─ she
     says  she shouldn't think we'd want  to go  to  see castles here;
     she  should think we'd  want to  wait till we  got to  Italy.  It
     seems as if there would be so many there,'  continue' Mrs Miller,
     with an air  of increasing confidence.  'Of course, we  only want
     to see the principal  ones.  'We visited several in England,' she
     presently added.

     'Ah yes! in England there are beautiful castles,' said
     Winterbourne. 'But Chillon, here,is very well worth seeing.'

     'Well, if Daisy feels up to  it  ─,'  said Mrs Miller,  in a tone
     impregnated with a sense of the magnitude of the enterprise.  'It
     seems   as  if  there   was  nothing  she  wouldn't   undertake.'

     'Oh,  I think  she'll enjoy it!' Winterbourne  declared.  And  he
     desired more and more to make it a certainty that he  was to have
     the  privilege of  a  "tête-à-tête"  [private  meeting]  with the
     young  lady, who was still  strolling  along  in front  of  them,
     softly vocalizing.  'You are not disposed,  madam,'  he inquired,
     'to undertake it yourself?'

     Daisy's mother looked  at  him, an  instant,  askance,  and  then
     walked forward  in silence.  Then  ─ 'I  guess she had  better go
     along,' she said, simply.

     Winterbourne  observed to himself that this  was a very different
     type of  maternity from that of the vigilant  matrons  who massed
     themselves in  the forefront of  social intercourse in  the  dark
     old city at the other end of the lake.  But his  meditations were
     interrupted  by  hearing his  name very distinctly  pronounced by
     Mrs Miller's unprotected daughter.

     'Mr Winterbourne!' murmured Daisy.

     'Mademoiselle!' said the young man.

     'Don't you want to take me out in a boat?'

     'At present?' he asked.

     'Of course!' said Daisy.

     'Well, Annie Miller!' exclaimed her mother.

     'I beg you, madam, to let her go,'  said  Winterbourne, ardently;
     for he had  never yet  enjoyed the sensation  of guiding  through
     the  summer  starlight  a  skiff  freighted   with  a  fresh  and
     beautiful young girl.

     'I shouldn't think she'd want to,'  said her mother.   'I  should
     think she'd rather go indoors.'

     'I'm sure  Mr  Winterbourne wants  to take  me,' Daisy  declared.
     'He's so awfully devoted!'

     'I will row you over to Chillon, in the starlight.'

     'I don't believe it?' said Daisy.

     'Well!' ejaculated the elder lady again.

     'You haven't  spoken  to me for half an  hour,' her daughter went
     on.

     'I have been  having  some very pleasant  conversation  with your
     mother,' said Winterbourne.

     'Well;  I  want you to take me  out in  a boat?'  Daisy repeated.
     They had all stopped, and she  turned round and  was  looking  at
     Winterbourne.   Her face wore  a  charming smile, her pretty eyes
     were gleaming, she  was  swinging  her great fan about.  No; it's
     impossible  to  be  prettier  than  that,  thought  Winterbourne.

     'There are half a dozen boats moored at that  landing  place,' he
     said,  pointing  to  certain  steps  which   descended  from  the
     garden to  the lake.  'If you will do me the honour to accept  my
     arm, we will go and select one of them.'

     Daisy stood there  smiling; she  threw back her  head and gave  a
     little  light  laugh.   'I  like  a  gentleman to be formal!' she
     declared.

     'I assure you it's a formal offer.'

     'I was bound I would  make  you  say something,' Daisy  went  on.

     'You see it's not very  difficult,' said Winterbourne.  'But I am
     afraid you are chaffing me.'

     'I   think   not,   sir,'  remarked  Mrs  Miller,   very  gently.

     'Do, then,  let  me give  you a row,'  he said to the young girl.

     'It's  quite  lovely,   the  way  you  say  that!'  cried  Daisy.

     'It will be still more lovely to do it.'

     'Yes, it would be lovely!' said Daisy.  But she made no  movement
     to accompany him; she only stood there laughing.

     'I  should think  you had better  find  out  what  time  it  is,'
     interposed her mother.

     'It is  eleven  o'clock'  madam,' said  a voice,  with  a foreign
     accent,  out  of  the  neighbouring darkness;  and  Winterbourne,
     turning, perceived the  florid  personage  who was  in attendance
     upon   the  two  ladies.   He  had  apparently  just  approached.

     'Oh,  Eugenio,'  said  Daisy,  'I  am  going   out  in  a  boat!'

     Eugenio bowed. 'At eleven o'clock, mademoiselle?'

     'I  am  going   with   Mr   Winterbourne.    This  very  minute.'

     'Do tell  her  she  can't,'  said  Mrs  Miller  to  the  courier.

     'I think you  had better  not  go out  in a  boat, mademoiselle,'
     Eugenio declared.

     Winterbourne   wished  to  Heaven  this  pretty  girl were not so
     familiar with her courier; but he said nothing.

     'I    suppose    you   don't    think    it's    proper!'   Daisy
     exclaimed,   'Eugenio    doesn't   think    anything's   proper.'

     'I am at your service,' said Winterbourne.

     'Does  mademoiselle  propose  to  go  alone?'  asked  Eugenio  of
     Mrs Miller.

     'Oh,  no;  with   this   gentleman!'   answered   Daisy's  mamma.

     The courier looked  for  a  moment  at Winterbourne  ─ the latter
     thought  he  was smiling ─ and  then, solemnly, with  a bow,  'As
     mademoiselle pleases!' he said.

     'Oh,  I hoped  you would make a fuss!' said Daisy.  'I don't care
     to go now.'

     'I myself shall  make  a fuss if you don't go,'said Winterbourne.

     'That's  all  I want ─  a little fuss!' And the young girl  began
     to laugh again.

     'Mr   Randolph  has   gone  to  bed!'   the  courier   announced,
     frigidly.

     'Oh, Daisy; now we can go!' said Mrs Miller.

     Daisy turned  away from Winterbourne,  looking  at  him,  smiling
     and fanning herself. 'Good night,' she said;

     'I hope  you  are disappointed,  or  disgusted,  or  some thing!'

     He  looked  at her,  taking  the hand  she  offered  him.   'I am
     puzzled,' he answered.

     'Well; I hope it  won't keep you  awake!' she said, very smartly;
     and,  under the escort of the privileged  Eugenio, the two ladies
     passed towards the house.

     Winterbourne stood looking  after them; he  was  indeed  puzzled.
     He  lingered beside the  lake for  a quarter of  an hour, turning
     over the mystery  of  the  young  girl's sudden familiarities and
     caprices.  But the  only very definite conclusion  he came to was
     that he should  enjoy  deucedly  'going  off' with her somewhere.

     Two  days afterwards  he  went  off  with  her  to  the Castle of
     Chillon.  He waited for her in the large hall of the hotel, where
     the couriers,  the servants,  the  foreign tourists were lounging
     about and staring.  It was  not the  place he would have  chosen,
     but she had appointed it. She came tripping downstairs, buttoning
     her  long   gloves,  squeezing  her  folded  parasol  against her
     pretty figure,  dressed in the perfection  of  a soberly  elegant
     travelling-costume.   Winterbourne was a man of imagination  and,
     as our ancestors used to say, of  sensibility;  as  he looked  at
     her dress and, on  the great staircase, her little rapid, confid-
     ing step,  he  felt as if  there  were  something romantic  going
     forward.  He could have believed he was  going to elope with her.
     He  passed  out  with  her among  all the  idle  people that were
     assembled there; they  were all looking at her very hard; she had
     begun to  chatter  as  soon as  she  joined him.   Winterbourne's
     preference had been that they should be  conveyed to Chillon in a
     carriage;  but she  expressed  a lively wish  to go in the little
     steamer;  she  declared that  she  had a  passion for steamboats.
     There  was always such a lovely  breeze upon the  water, and  you
     saw such lots of people. The sail was not long, but
     Winterbourne's companion  found  time to say a great many things.
     To the young man  himself their little excursion  was so  much of
     an  escapade ─  an  adventure  ─  that,  even  allowing  for  her
     habitual  sense of freedom, he had some expectation of seeing her
     regard  it in the  same way.   But it must be  confessed that, in
     this particular, he was disappointed.  Daisy Miller was extremely
     animated, she was in  charming spirits;  but  she was  apparently
     not at all  excited;  she was not  fluttered; she avoided neither
     his eyes  nor those of  anyone else; she blushed neither when she
     looked at him  nor when she saw that people were looking at  her.
     people continued to  look at her  a great  deal, and Winterbourne
     took  much satisfaction in his  pretty companion's  distinguished
     air.  He had been a little afraid that she would talk loud, laugh
     overmuch,  and  even, perhaps,  desire  to move about  the boat a
     good deal.  But he quite forgot  his fears; he sat  smiling, with
     his eyes  upon her face, while without moving from her place, she
     delivered herself of a great number of original reflections.   It
     was  the  most  charming garrulity  he  had  ever heard.   He had
     assented to the idea  that  she was  'common';  but  was  she so,
     after all, or was he simply getting used  to her commonness.  Her
     conversation   was  chiefly  of  what  metaphysicians  term   the
     objective cast;  but  every now  and  then it  took  a subjective
     turn.

     'What on  earth are  you so  grave about?' she suddenly demanded,
     fixing her agreeable eyes upon Winterbourne's.

     'Am I grave?' he asked.  'I had an  idea I was grinning  from ear
     to ear.'

     'You  look as if  you were taking  me to a  funeral.  If that's a
     grin, your ears are very near together.'

     'Should   you  like  me  to  dance  a   hornpipe  on  the  deck?'

     'Pray  do, and  I'll  carry  round your  hat.   It  will  pay the
     expenses of our journey.'

     'I never was better pleased  in my life,' murmured  Winterbourne.

     She looked at him  a moment,  and then burst into a little laugh.
     'I like to  make  you say those things!  You're a queer mixture!'

     In  the castle,  after they  had landed, the  subjective  element
     decidedly prevailed.  Daisy  tripped about the  vaulted chambers,
     rustled her  skirts  in the corkscrew  staircases,  flirted  back
     with  a  pretty  little cry and a shudder from the  edge  of  the
     "oubliettes"  [dongeon], and  turned a singularly well-shaped ear
     to everything that Winterbourne told  her  about the  place.  But
     he  saw  that  she cared very little for feudal  antiquities, and
     that   the  dusky  traditions   of  Chillon  made  but  a  slight
     impression upon her.  They had the good fortune to have been able
     to  walk  about  without other  companionship than  that  of  the
     custodian;  and   Winterbourne  arranged  with  this  functionary
     that they should not be  hurried ─  that  they  should linger and
     pause wherever  they chose. The custodian interpreted the bargain
     generously ─ Winterbourne,  on his side,  had been generous ─ and
     ended by leaving them quite to themselves. Miss Miller's observa-
     tions  were  not remarkable for logical consistency; for anything
     she wanted to say she was  sure to  find  a pretext.  She found a
     great many pretexts  in  the  rugged  embrasures of  Chillon  for
     asking  Winterbourne sudden questions about himself ─ his family,
     his previous  history,  his tastes, his  habits, his intentions ─
     and  for  supplying   information  upon corresponding  points  in
     her  own personality.  Of her own  tastes, habits, and intentions
     Miss Miller was  prepared to give  the most  definite, and indeed
     the most favourable, account,

     'Well;  I  hope  you know  enough!'  she said  to her  companion,
     after he had told  her the history of the unhappy  Bonnivard.  'I
     never saw a man that knew  so much!' The history of Bonnivard had
     evidently,  as they say, gone one ear and  out of the other.  But
     Daisy went  on  to say and  'go round' with them; they might know
     something,in that case.  'Don't  you want  to come and teach Ran-
     dolph?' she asked.  Winterbourne said that nothing could possibly
     please  him  so  much;  but  that   he  had  unfortunately  other
     occupations.  'Other occupations?  I don't believe it!' said Miss
     Daisy.  'What  do you mean?  You are not in business.'  The young
     man admitted that he was not in business;  but he had engagements
     which, even within a day  or two,  would force  him to go back to
     Geneva.  'Oh,  bother!' she said,  'I  don't believe it!' and she
     began  to talk about something  else.   But a few  moments later,
     when he was  pointing out  to her the pretty design of an antique
     fireplace,  she broke out irrelevantly, 'You  don't  mean  to say
     you are going back to Geneva?'

     'It  is  a melancholy fact that I shall have to return  to Geneva
     tomorrow.'

     'Well, Mr  Winterbourne,' said Daisy;  'I think  you're  horrid!'

     'Oh, don't say  such dreadful  things!' said Winter bourne, 'just
     at the last.'

     'The last!' cried the young girl; 'I call it  the first.   I have
     half a mind to leave you here and go straight back  to  the hotel
     alone.' And for  the  next ten  minutes she did  nothing but call
     him horrid.  Poor  Winterbourne was fairly  bewildered;  no young
     lady had as yet  done  him  the honour to be so  agitated by  the
     announcement of his movements.  His companion, after this, ceased
     to  pay any  attention  to the  curiosities  of  Chillon  or  the
     beauties  of  the  lake;  she  opened  fire upon  the  mysterious
     charmer in Geneva,  whom  she appeared to have instantly taken it
     for granted that he was hurrying back to see.  How did Miss Daisy
     Miller know that  there was a  charmer in Geneva?   Winterbourne,
     who denied the existence of such a  person, was  quite unable  to
     discover; and he was divided between amazement at the rapidity of
     her induction  and amusement at the frankness of  her persiflage.
     She seemed  to  him, in all this,  an  extraordinary  mixture  of
     innocence and crudity.  'Does she never allow you more than three
     days at a time?, asked Daisy' ironically.

     'Doesn't she  give  you a  vacation  in  summer?  There's none so
     hard worked but they  can get leave to go off  somewhere at  this
     season.  I suppose,  if you stay  another day,  she'll come after
     you in the boat.  Do wait over till Friday, and I will go down to
     the landing to see her arrive!'

     Winterbourne  began  to  think   he  had   been  wrong  to   feel
     disappointed in the  temper in which the young lady had embarked.
     If he had missed the  personal  accent,  the personal accent  was
     now  making its appearance.  It sounded very distinctly, at last,
     in her  telling  him  she would stop  'teasing' him if  he  would
     promise  her  solemnly  to  come  down  to  Rome  in the  winter.

     'That's  not a difficult  promise  to make,' said 'Winter bourne.
     'My aunt has taken  an apartment in Rome for the  winter, and has
     already asked me to come and see her.'

     'I don't  want  you  to come for  your aunt,' said Daisy; 'I want
     you  to come  for me.' And  this  was the only  allusion that the
     young man  was  ever to hear her make to his invidious kinswoman.
     He  declared that, at any rate, he would certainly  come.   After
     this Daisy  stopped teasing.  Winterbourne took a  carriage,  and
     they  drove back to Vevey in  the  dusk; the young girl  was very
     quiet.

     In   the  evening   Winterbourne   mentioned   to  Mrs   Costello
     that  he  had spent the  afternoon  at Chillon,  with  Miss Daisy
     Miller.

     'The Americans ─ of the courier?' asked this lady,

     'Ah, happily,' said  Winterbourne, 'the courier  stayed at home.'

     'She went with you all alone?'

     'All alone.'

     Mrs  Costello  sniffed  a  little at  her  smelling-bottle.'  And
     that,'  she  exclaimed,  'is  the  young person you wanted  me to
     know!'



                                      3



     Winterbourne, who had  returned  to  Geneva  the  day  after  his
     excursion to Chillon, went to Rome  towards  the end of  January.
     His aunt had  been established  there for  several weeks,  and he
     had received a  couple  of letters from her.   'Those people  you
     were  so devoted  to  last  summer at  Vevey have turned up here,
     courier  and all,' she  wrote.  'They  seem to have made  several
     acquaintances,    but  the  courier  continues  to  be  the  most
     "intime"  [intimate].   The  young  lady,  however, is  also very
     intimate  with  some third-rate Italians,  with  whom she rackets
     about in a way that makes  much talk.  Bring me that pretty novel
     of Cherbuliez's  ─  Paule Méré  ─ and  don't come  later than the
     23rd.'

     In the natural course of  events,  Winterbourne,  on arriving  in
     Rome, would presently  have  ascertained Mrs Miller's  address at
     the American banker's and  have  gone to pay  his compliments  to
     Miss Daisy.   'After what happened  at  Vevey I certainly think I
     may call upon them,' said to Mrs Costello.

     'If, after what  happens ─ at  Vevey and everywhere  ─ you desire
     to keep up the acquaintance, you are  very welcome.  Of  course a
     man may  know  everyone.   Men are  welcome  to  the  privilege!'

     'Pray   what  is  it   that  happens   ─  here,  for   instance?'
     Winterbourne demanded.

     'The  girl goes  about alone with  her  foreigners.   As to  what
     happens  further' you must  apply elsewhere for information.  She
     has picked up half a dozen of the regular Roman
     fortune-hunters,  and she  takes them  about  to people's houses.
     When she comes to a party  she brings with her a gentleman with a
     good deal of manner and a wonderful moustache.'

     'And where is the mother?'

     'I  haven't the least  idea.   They are  very  dreadful  people.'

     'Winterbourne meditated a  moment.  They are very ignorant ─ very
     innocent only. Depend upon it they are not bad.'

     'They   are    hopelessly    vulgar,'    said    Mrs    Costello.

     'Whether  or no  being  hopelessly vulgar is  being  'bad'  is  a
     question for the metaphysicians.  They are bad enough to dislike,
     at any  rate;  and for  this  short  life that is  quite enough.'

     The news  that Daisy  Miller  was  surrounded  by  half  a  dozen
     wonderful   moustaches   checked  Winterbourne's  impulse  to  go
     straightway to see her.  He had perhaps not  definitely flattered
     himself  that  he had  made an  ineffaceable impression  upon her
     heart,  but  he was  annoyed  at hearing of a state of affairs so
     little in harmony  with an image  that had lately  flitted in and
     out  of  his own  meditations; the image of  a  very pretty  girl
     looking  out of an  old Roman window and  asking herself urgently
     when Mr Winterbourne would arrive.  If, however, he determined to
     wait a little  before reminding Miss Miller of  his claims to her
     consideration, he went very soon to call  upon two or three other
     friends.  One of these friends was an American lady who had spent
     several winters at Geneva, where she  had  placed her children at
     school.  She was a very accomplished woman  and she lived in  the
     Via  Gregoriana.   Winterbourne  found  her  in  a little crimson
     drawing-room,  on  a  third  floor;  the  room  was  filled  with
     southern sunshine.   He had  not been there ten minutes  when the
     servant  came  in,  announcing'Madame  Mila!'  This  announcement
     was  presently  followed  by  the  entrance  of  little  Randolph
     Miller, who stopped in the middle  of  the room and stood staring
     at Winterbourne.   An instant later his pretty sister crossed the
     threshold; and then, after  a considerable  interval,  Mrs Miller
     slowly advanced.

     'I know you!' said Randolph.

     'I'm sure you know a great many things,' exclaimed
     Winterbourne, taking  him by  the hand.   'How is your  education
     coming on?'

     Daisy  was exchanging greetings very  prettily with  her hostess;
     but when she heard  Winterbourne's voice  she quickly  turned her
     head. 'Well, I declare!' she said.

     'I  told you I should  come,  you  know,  Winterbourne  rejoined,
     smiling.

     'Well ─ I didn't believe it,' said Miss Daisy.

     'I am much obliged to you,' laughed the young man.

     'You might have come to see me!' said Daisy.

     'I arrived only yesterday.'

     'I don't believe that!' the young girl declared.

     Winterbourne turned  with a  protesting smile to  her mother; but
     this  lady evaded his glance,  and seating  her self,  fixed  her
     eyes  upon her son.  We've  got  a bigger place than this,'  said
     Randolph. 'It's all gold on the walls.'

     Mrs Miller turned uneasily in  her chair.   'I told you if I were
     to  bring  you,  you  would  say   something!'   she  murmured.

     'I  told <you>!' Randolph  exclaimed.  'I tell  <you>,  sir!'  he
     added jocosely, giving Winterbourne a thump  on the knee.  'It is
     bigger, too!'

     Daisy had  entered  upon a lively conversation with her  hostess;
     Winterbourne judged it becoming  to  address a few  words to  her
     mother.  'I hope you have been well since we parted at Vevey,' he
     said.

     Mrs  Miller  now  certainly  looked  at  him   ─  at   his  chin.

     'Not very well, sir,' she answered.

     'She's  got  the dyspepsia,  said  Randolph.  'I've got  it  too.
     Father's got it. I've got it worst!'

     This  announcement,  instead  of embarrassing Mrs Miller,  seemed
     to relieve  her.  'I suffer from the fever,' she said.  'lf think
     it's   this   climate;  it's   less  bracing   than  Schenectady,
     especially in the winter season.  I  don't  know whether you know
     we reside at Schenectady.  I was saying to Daisy that I certainly
     hadn't found anyone like Dr Davis, and I didn't believe I should.
     Oh, at  Schenectady,  he  stands  first; they think everything of
     him.  He has so much to do, and yet there was nothing he wouldn't
     do for  me.  He said he never saw anything like my dyspepsia, but
     he was bound  to cure it.  I'm sure there was nothing he wouldn't
     try. He was just going to try something new when we came off.  Mr
     Miller wanted Daisy to see Europe for herself.  But I wrote to Mr
     Miller that  it seems as  if l couldn't  get on without Dr Davis.
     At Schenectady  he  stands  at the very top; and there's a  great
     deal of sickness there, too. It affects my sleep.'

     'Winterbourne  had a good  deal  of  pathological gossip  with Dr
     Davis's patient, during  which Daisy  chattered  unremittingly to
     her own companion.  The  young  man asked Mrs Miller how she  was
     pleased  with  Rome.  'Well, I must  say I am disappointed,'  she
     answered.  'We had heard so much about it; I suppose we had heard
     too much.  But we  couldn't help that, 'We had been led to expect
     something different.'

     'Ah,  wait  a little, and you will become very fond of it,'  said
     Winterbourne.

     'I  hate  it  worse  and  worse   every  day!'   cried  Randolph.

     'You  are   like  the  infant  Hannibal,   said   Winterbourne.

     'No, I ain't!' Randolph declared, at a venture.

     'You are not much like  an  infant,'  said his mother.   'But  we
     have seen  places,' she  resumed' 'that  I should put a long  way
     before  Rome.' And  in  reply  to  Winterbourne's  interrogation,
     'There's Zürich, she observed; 'I think Zürich  is lovely; and we
     hadn't heard half so much about it.'

     'The  best place we've seen  is the  <City  of  Richmond>!'  said
     Randolph.

     'He means  the  ship,'  his  mother  explained.  'We  crossed  in
     that ship.  Randolph had a good time on  the <City of Richmond>.'

     'It's the best place I've seen,'  the  child repeated.  ',Only it
     was turned the wrong way.'

     'Well, we've got to  turn the  right  way some  time,'  said  Mrs
     Miller,  with  a  little laugh. 'Winterbourne expressed the  hope
     that her daughter at  least  found  some  gratification  in Rome,
     and  she declared that Daisy was quite carried  away.   'It's  on
     account of the  society ─ the society's splendid.  She goes round
     everywhere; she  has made  a great number  of  acquaintances.  Of
     course she goes round more than I do.  I must say  they have been
     very sociable; they  have taken her right in.  And then she knows
     a  great  many gentlemen.  Oh,  she thinks  there's nothing  like
     Rome.  Of course, it's  a great  deal pleasanter for a young lady
     if she knows plenty of gentlemen.'

     By   this  time  Daisy   had  turned  her  attention   again   to
     Winterbourne.  'I've been telling Mrs Walker how  mean you were!'
     the young girl announced.

     'And what is the evidence you have offered?' asked
     Winterbourne,  rather   annoyed   at   Miss   Miller's   want  of
     appreciation  of  the veal of an  admirer who on his way  down to
     Rome  had  stopped  neither  at  Bologna nor at Florence,  simply
     because of a certain sentimental  impatience.  He remembered that
     a cynical compatriot  had once told him that American women ─ the
     pretty ones, and  this  gave  a largeness to the axiom ─  were at
     once the most  exacting in the world and the least endowed with a
     sense of indebtedness.

     'Why, you were awfully mean at Vevey,' said Daisy.

     'You wouldn't do anything.   You wouldn't stay there when I asked
     you.'

     'My  dearest young  lady,'  cried Winterbourne,  with  eloquence,
     'have  I come  all the way to Rome to encounter your reproaches?'

     'Just hear  him say that!' said  Daisy  to  her hostess, giving a
     twist to a bow on this lady's dress.  'Did you ever hear anything
     so quaint?'

     'So quaint, my  dear?'  murmured Mrs Walker,  in  the  tone  of a
     partisan of Winterbourne.

     'Well, I don't know,' said  Daisy,fingering Mrs Walker's ribbons.
     'Mrs   Walker,  I  want  to   tell   you  something.'

     'Motherr,'  interposed  Randolph,  with his  rough  ends  to  his
     words,   'I  tell   you  you've  got  to  go.   Eugenio'll  raise
     something!'

     'I'm not  afraid of  Eugenio,'  said  Daisy,  with a  toss of her
     head.  'Look here, Mrs Walker,' she went on, 'you know I'm coming
     to your party.'

     'I am delighted to hear it.'

     'I've got a lovely dress.'

     'I am very sure of that.'

     'But  I  want to ask  a favour  ─ permission  to bring a friend.'

     'I  shall  be  happy  to  see  any  of  your  friends,'  said Mrs
     'Walker, turning with a smile to Mrs Miller.

     'Oh,  they are not my  friends,'  answered Daisy's mamma, smiling
     shyly, in her own fashion. 'I never spoke to them!'

     'It's  an  intimate friend of mine ─  Mr Giovanelli,' said Daisy,
     without a tremor in her  clear little voice or  a shadow  on  her
     brilliant little face.

     Mrs Walker  was  silent a moment,  she  gave  a  rapid glance  at
     Winterbourne.  'I shall  be glad to see Mr Giovanelli,'  she then
     said.

     'He's an  Italian,' Daisy pursued' with the   prettiest serenity.
     'He's a great  friend  of mine─  he's the  handsomest man  in the
     world ─ except  Mr Winterbourne! He knows plenty of Italians, but
     he  wants  to know  some Americans.  He thinks  ever  so  much of
     Americans.   He's tremendously clever.  He's perfectly lovely!'

     It was settled  that this briliant personage should be brought to
     Mrs Walker's  party, and then  Mrs Miller  prepared  to  take her
     leave.   'I  guess  we'll  go  back  to  the  hotel,'  she  said.

     'You may  go back to the hotel, mother, but  I'm going to take  a
     walk,' said Daisy.

     'She's  going to  walk with  Mr Giovanelli,' Randolph proclaimed.

     'I am going to the Pincio,' said Daisy, smiling.

     'Alone,  my  dear  ─  at  this  hour?'  Mrs  Walker  asked.   The
     afternoon  was drawing to a close  ─  it  was  the  hour  for the
     throng   of   carriages   and   of   contemplative   pedestrians.

     'I   don't   think   it's  safe,  my  dear,'  said   Mrs  Walker.

     'Neither do I,' subjoined Mrs  Miller.  'You'll get the  fever as
     sure as you live. Remember what Dr Davis told you!'

     'Give  her  some  medicine  before  she  goes,'  said   Randolph.

     The  company  had risen to  its feet;  Daisy, still  showing  her
     pretty teeth, bent over and kissed her hostess.  'Mrs Walker, you
     are too perfect,' she said.   'I'm not going alone; I am going to
     meet a friend.'

     'Your friend won't keep you  from getting the  fever?' Mrs Miller
     observed.

     'Is it Mr Giovanelli?' asked the hostess.

     Winterbourne was watching the young  girl; at  this question  his
     attention quickened.  She  stood there  smiling and smoothing her
     bonnet-ribbons; she  glanced at Winterbourne.   Then,  while  she
     glanced and smiled, she answered ─ without a shade of hesitation'
     'Mr Giovanelli ─ the beautiful Giovanelli.'

     'My  dear young  friend,'  said  Mrs  Walker,  taking  her  hand,
     pleadingly, 'don't walk off to the Pincio at this hour to  meet a
     beautiful Italian.'

     'Well, he speaks English,' said Mrs Miller.

     'Gracious  me!' Daisy exclaimed,  'I  don't  want to  do anything
     improper.  There's an  easy way to settle  it.' She continued  to
     glance  at  Winterbourne.' The  Pincio is  only  a hundred  yards
     distant,  and if Mr Winterbourne were as polite as he pretends he
     would offer to walk with me!'

     Winterbourne's  politeness hastened  to  affirm itself,  and  the
     young girl gave him gracious leave to accompany her.  They passed
     downstairs  before her  mother,  and  at  the  door  Winterbourne
     perceived  Mrs Miller's carriage drawn  up,  with the  ornamental
     courier  whose acquaintance  he had made at  Vevey seated within.
     'Good-bye, Eugenio!'  cried  Daisy, 'I'm  going to take a  walk.'
     The distance from the Via Gregoriana  to  the beautiful garden at
     the  other  end  of   the  Pincian  Hill  is,  in  fact,  rapidly
     traversed.  As the day  was splendid, however, and the  concourse
     of   vehicles,  walkers,   and   loungers  numerous,   the  young
     Americans  found  their  progress  much delayed.   This  fact was
     highly agreeable to Winterbourne, in spite  of his  consciousness
     of  his singular situation.  The  slow-moving, idly  gazing Roman
     crowd bestowed  much  attention upon the  extremely pretty  young
     foreign lady who was passing through it upon his arm;and he  won-
     dered what on earth had been in Daisy's mind when she proposed to
     expose  herself,  unattended,  to   its   appreciation.  His  own
     mission to her sense, apparently, was to consign her to the hands
     of  Mr  Giovanelli;   but  Winterbourne,   at  once  annoyed  and
     gratified, resolved that he would do no such thing.

     'Why haven't you  been  to see me?' asked Daisy.  'You  can't get
     out of that.'

     'I have had the  honour  of  telling you that I  have  only  just
     stepped out of the train.'

     'You must  have  stayed  in  the  vain  a  good  while  after  it
     stopped!'  cried  the  young  girl,  with  her little  laugh.  'I
     suppose you  were  asleep.   You have had time  to go to see  Mrs
     Walker.'

     'I  knew   Mrs   Walker   ─   'Winterbourne  began   to  explain.

     'I knew where you knew her.  You knew her at Geneva.  She told me
     so.   Well,  you knew me at Vevey.  That's just as good.  So  you
     ought to have come.' She asked him  no  other question than this;
     she began to prattle about her own affairs.  'We've got  splendid
     rooms at the hotel; Eugenio  says they're the best rooms in Rome.
     We are going to stay all  winter ─ if we don't die of the  fever;
     and  I guess we'll stay then.   It's  a  great deal nicer  than I
     thought; I thought it  would be  fearfully  quiet; I was sure  it
     would be awfully poky.  I was sure  we should be going  round all
     the time with  one of those dreadful old men that  explain  about
     the pictures and things.  But we  only  had about a week of that,
     and now I'm  enjoying  myself.   I  know ever so many people, and
     they are all so charming.   The society's extremely select, There
     are all  kinds ─  English, and  Germans, and Italians.  I think I
     like the English best.   I like their style of conversation.  But
     there  are  some  lovely  Americans.   I  never  saw anything  so
     hospitable.   There's  something or  other  every  day.   There's
     not  much  dancing; but I  must  say I never thought dancing  was
     everything.  I was always fond of  conversation.  I guess I shall
     have plenty at Mrs Walker's ─ her rooms are so  small.' When they
     had passed the gate of  the Pincian Gardens, Miss Miller began to
     wonder where Mr Giovanelli  might be.  'We had better go straight
     to that  place in front.' she said, 'where you look at the view.'

     'I  certainly shall  not help you  to  find  him.'   Winterbourne
     declared.

     'Then  I   shall  find  him   without  you,'  said   Miss  Daisy.

     'You   certainly    won't   leave   me'.'   cried   Winterbourne.

     She  burst into  her little laugh.  'Are you  afraid  you'll  get
     lost ─ or run over?  But there's Giovanelli, leaning against that
     tree.  He's staring at  the women in the carriages:  did you ever
     see anything so cool?'

     'Winterbourne perceived at some  distance  a little man  standing
     with folded arms, nursing his cane.   He had a handsome face,  an
     artfully poised hat,  a glass  in  one  eye, and a nosegay in his
     button-hole.   Winterbourne looked at him a moment and then said,
     'Do you mean to speak to that man?'

     'Do I mean  to  speak to  him?  Why, you don't suppose I  mean to
     communicate by signs?'

     'Pray  understand, then,'  said Winterbourne,  'that I  intend to
     remain with you.'

     Daisy stopped and looked  at  him,  without  a  sign of  troubled
     consciousness in her face; with  nothing but the  presence of her
     charming eyes and her happy dimples.

     'Well, she's a cool one!' thought the young man.

     'I  don't like the  way  you say that,'  said  Daisy.  'It's  too
     imperious.'

     'I beg your pardon if I say it  wrong.  The main point is to give
     you an idea of my meaning.'

     The young girl  looked  at  him more gravely, but  with eyes that
     were prettier than  ever.' I  have never allowed  a gentleman  to
     dictate to me, or to interfere with anything I do.'

     'I  think   you   have  made  a   mistake,'  said   Winterbourne.

     'You should  sometimes  listen to a  gentleman ─  the right one.'

     Daisy  began  to  laugh  again,  'I  do  nothing  but  listen  to
     gentlemen!'  she  exclaimed.  'Tell  me if  Mr  Giovanelli is the
     right one?'

     The gentleman with the  nosegay  in  his bosom had  now perceived
     our  two  friends,  and  was  approaching  the  young  girl  with
     obsequious rapidity.  He  bowed to Winterbourne as well as to the
     latter's companion;  he  had a  brilliant smile,  an  intelligent
     eye; Winterbourne thought him not a  bad-looking  fellow.  But he
     nevertheless said to  Daisy  ─ 'No,  he's not the  right  one.'

     Daisy evidently had a natural talent for performing
     introductions;  she mentioned  the name of each of her companions
     to the other.  She  strolled along with one of them  on each side
     of  her;  Mr  Giovanelli,   who  spoke  English  very   cleverly─
     Winterbourne afterwards learned that he had practised  the  idiom
     upon a great  many  American  heiresses ─  addressed her  a great
     deal  of very  polite nonsense; he was extremely  urbane, and the
     young American, who said nothing, reflected upon that  profundity
     of  Italian  cleverness  which  enables  people  to  appear  more
     gratious in proportion  as  they  are more  acutely disappointed.
     Giovanelli, of course, had counted upon something  more intimate;
     he had not  bargained for a  party  of three.   But he  kept  his
     temper in  a  manner which  suggested far-stretching  intentions.
     Winterbourne   flattered  himself  that he had taken his measure.
     'He is not a gentleman,'  said the young American;  'he is only a
     clever imitation of one. He is a music-master, or a
     penny-a-liner, or a third-rate artist.  Damn his  good looks!' Mr
     Giovanelli had  certainly a  very pretty  face;  but Winterbourne
     felt a superior indignation at his own lovely fellow
     countrywoman's not  knowing  the  difference  between  a spurious
     gentleman and a  real  one.  Giovanelli  chattered and jested and
     made himself wonderfully agreeable.  It was  true that  if he was
     an imitation  the  imitation was  very skilful.   'Nevertheless,'
     Winterbourne  said to himself, 'a  nice girl  ought to know!' And
     then  he  came back  to the question whether  this was in  fact a
     nice girl.   'Would a nice girl ─  even allowing for her  being a
     little  American  flirt  ─  make  a  rendezvous  [date]   with  a
     presumably  low-lived foreigner?   The rendezvous [date]  in this
     case,  indeed,  had  been  in  broad  daylight,  and in  the most
     crowded corner of  Rome; but was it not impossible to regard  the
     choice  of these  circumstances  as a proof of extreme  cynicism?
     Singular though it  may  seem.   Winterbourne  was vexed that the
     young girl,  in  joining her "amoroso"  [lover] should not appear
     more impatient of his own  company,  and he was  vexed because of
     his inclination. It was impossible  to regard her as a  perfectly
     well-conducted  young lady; she was wanting in  a  certain indis-
     pensable  delicacy.   It would therefore simplify matters greatly
     to be  able to treat her as the object of one of those sentiments
     which  are  called by  romancers  'lawless  passions'.  That  she
     should seem to  wish  to get  rid of him  would help him to think
     more lightly of her, and to be  able to think more lightly of her
     would  make  her  much  less  perplexing.   But  Daisy,  on  this
     occasion,  continued  to  present  herself   as  an   inscrutable
     combination of audacity and innocence.

     She  had been walking  some  quarter of an hour,  attended by her
     two  cavaliers, and responding in a tone of very childish gaiety,
     as  it  seemed  to  Winterbourne, to  the  pretty speeches  of Mr
     Giovanelli,  when a carriage that  had  detached itself from  the
     revolving train  drew  up  beside the  path.  At  the same moment
     Winterbourne perceived  that his  friend Mrs  Walker ─  the  lady
     whose house he had lately  left ─ was seated  in the  vehicle and
     was beckoning to him.  Leaving Miss  Miller's  side, he  hastened
     to  obey  her summons.   Mrs Walker  was  flushed;  she  wore  an
     excited  air.  'It is really too dreadful,' she said.  'That girl
     must not do this  sort of thing.  She must not walk here with you
     two men. Fifty people have noticed her.'

     Winterbourne raised  his eyebrows.  'I think it's a  pity to make
     too much fuss about it.'

     'It's a pity to let the girl ruin herself!'

     'She is very innocent,' said Winterbourne.

     'She's  very  crazy!'  cried  Mrs  Walker.   'Did  you  ever  see
     anything  so imbecile  as her mother?  After you had all left me,
     just now,  I could not sit still  for thinking of  it.  It seemed
     too pitiful, not  even  to  attempt to save  her.   I ordered the
     carriage and  put  on  my  bonnet, and  came  here as  quickly as
     possible. Thank heaven I have found you!'

     'What  do  you  propose  to do  with  us?'  asked Winter  bourne,
     smiling.

     'To ask her  to  get in,  to drive  her  about  here for half  an
     hour,  so that the  world may see she  is  not running absolutely
     wild, and then to take her safely home.'

     'I don't think  it's  a very happy  thought,' said  Winterbourne;
     'but you can try.'

     Mrs Walker tried.   The young man went in pursuit of Miss Miller,
     who had simply  nodded  and  smiled  at his interlocutrix  in the
     carriage and  had gone her way with her own companion.  Daisy, on
     learning that  Mrs Walker wished to  speak  to  her, retraced her
     steps with a perfect  good  grace  and with Mr  Giovanelli at her
     side.   She declared that she  was delighted to  have a chance to
     present  this gentleman to Mrs Walker.  She  immediately achieved
     the introduction,  and declared that  she  had never  in her life
     seen   anything   so   lovely   as  Mrs   Walker's  carriage-rug.

     'I  am  glad you admire  it,'  said this  lady, smiling  sweetly.
     'Will you get in and let me put it over you?'

     'Oh,  no, thank you,' said Daisy.   'I shall admire it much  more
     as I see you driving round with it.'

     'Do get in and drive with me,' said Mrs Walker.

     'That would be  charming, but  it's  so enchanting just as I am!'
     and  Daisy gave a brilliant glance at  the  gentlemen  on  either
     side of her.

     'It  may  be  enchanting,  dear child,  but it is not the  custom
     here,' urged  Mrs  Walker, leaning forward in  her victoria  with
     her hands devoutly clasped.

     'Well,  it ought to be, then!' said  Daisy.  'If I didn't  walk I
     should expire.'

     'You should walk with  your  mother, dear,'  cried the  lady from
     Geneva, losing patience.

     'With my mother  dear!' exclaimed the  young  girl.  Winterbourne
     saw that she scented interference.   'My mother  never walked ten
     steps in her  life.  And then, you know,' she added with a laugh,
     'I am more than five years old.'

     'You  are old enough to be more reasonable.   You are old enough,
     dear Miss Miller, to be talked about.'

     Daisy looked at Mrs Walker,  smiling intensely.   'Talked  about?
     What do you mean!'

     'Come into my carriage and I will tell you.'

     Daisy  turned  her  quickened  glance  again   from  one  of  the
     gentlemen beside her  to  the other.  Mr Giovanelli was bowing to
     and fro,  rubbing  down  his gloves and laughing very  agreeably;
     'Winterbourne thought it a most unpleasant scene.  'I don't think
     I want to know what  you  mean,' said Daisy presently.   'I don't
     think I should like it.'

     Winterbourne  wished  that  Mrs   Walker   would   tuck  in   her
     carriage-rug and  drive away;  but this  lady did not enjoy being
     defied, as she afterwards told  him.   'Should you  prefer  being
     thought a very reckless girl?'  she demanded.

     'Gracious   me!'   exclaimed  Daisy.   She  looked  again  at  Mr
     Giovanelli, then  she turned to Winterbourne.  There was a little
     pink flush in her  cheek; she was tremendously pretty.   'Does Mr
     Winterbourne think,'  she  asked  slowly, smiling,  throwing back
     her head and  glancing  at him from head to foot, 'that ─ to save
     my reputation ─ I ought to get into the carriage?'

     Winterbourne coloured;  for  an instant he hesitated greatly.  It
     seemed so strange to hear her speak that way of her
     'reputation'.  But he  himself, in fact, must speak in accordance
     with  gallantry.  The  finest gallantry, here,was simply  to tell
     her the truth;  and  the  truth, for  Winterbourne,  as  the  few
     indications  I have  been able to give have made him known to the
     reader,  was that  Daisy Miller should take  Mrs Walker's advice.
     He looked  at her  exquisite  prettiness; and then  he said  very
     gently, 'I think you should get into the carriage.'

     Daisy gave  a violent laugh.  'I never  heard anything  so stiff!
     If this  is  improper, Mrs  Walker,' she pursued, 'then I  am all
     improper, and you must give me  up.  Good-bye; I hope you'll have
     a lovely  ride!' and, with Mr Giovanelli, who made a triumphantly
     obsequious salute, she turned away.

     Mrs  Walker  sat looking after  her, and  there were tears in Mrs
     Walker's eyes.   'Get  in here, sir,'  she  said to Winterbourne,
     indicating  the  place beside her.   The  young man answered that
     he  felt bound to accompany  Miss  Miller; whereupon  Mrs  Walker
     declared  that if  he refused her  this  favour she  would  never
     speak to him again.  She  was evidently in earnest.  Winterbourne
     over took  Daisy and her companion and, offering  the young  girl
     his hand, told her that  Mrs  Walker  had made an imperious claim
     upon  his  society.  He  expected that  in  answer she would  say
     something  rather free, something to commit herself still further
     to  that 'recklessness' fromwhich  Mrs Walker  had so  charitably
     endeavoured  to  dissuade  her.   But she  only  shook  his hand,
     hardly looking at  him, while  Mr  Giovanelli  bade him  farewell
     with a too emphatic flourish of the hat.

     Winterbourne was  not in the  best possible humour as he took his
     seat in Mrs Walker's victoria.   'That was not clever of you,' he
     said candidly, while  the vehicle  mingled again with  the throng
     of carriages.

     'In such  a  case,' his companion answered.   'I don't wish to be
     clever' I wish to be earnest!'

     'Well, your earnestness has  only offended her and  put her off.'

     'It  has happened very  well,'  said Mrs Walker.   'lf  she is so
     perfectly determined to compromise herself' the sooner one  knows
     it the better; one can act accordingly.'

     'I  suspect   she   meant   no  harm,  ─  Winterbourne  rejoined.

     'So I  thought  a  month ago.  But she  has been going  too far.'

     'What has she been doing?'

     'Everything that is not  done  here.  Flirting  with any  man she
     could  pickup;  sitting  in  corners  with  mysterious  Italians;
     dancing all  the evening with the same partners; receiving visits
     at eleven  o'clock at night.  Her  mother goes away when visitors
     come.'

     'But  her brother,'  said  Winterbourne, laughing, 'sits  up till
     midnight.'

     'He must  be  edified by what  he sees.  I'm  told  that at  they
     hotel everyone is talking  about her, and that a smile goes round
     among  the  servants when  a gentleman  comes and  asks  for Miss
     Miller.'

     'The   servants   be   hanged!'   said   'Winterbourne   angrily.

     'The poor girl's only  fault,'  he  presently added, 'is that she
     is very uncultivated.'

     'She is naturally indelicate,' Mrs Walker declared.

     'Take that example  this morning.   How long had you known her at
     Vevey?'

     'A couple of days.'

     'Fancy,  then, her  making it a personal matter  that  you should
     have left the place!'

     'Winterbourne  was silent  for  some  moments; then  he  said  'I
     suspect, Mrs Walker,  that  you  and  I have  lived too  long  at
     Geneva!'  And he  added a request that she should inform him with
     what  particular design  she had made  him  enter  her  carriage.

     'I  wished to beg you to cease  your relations with Miss Miller ─
     not  to  flirt with her ─  to  give her no further opportunity to
     expose herself ─ to let her alone, in short.'

     'I'm afraid I can't do that,'  said Winterbourne.   'I  like  her
     extremely.'

     'All  the more  reason  that you shouldn't help  her  to  make  a
     scandal.'

     'There  shall  be nothing scandalous in  my attentions  to  her.'

     'There certainly will be in the way she  takes them.   But I have
     said what  I had on my conscience,' Mrs Walker  pursued.  'If you
     wish to rejoin the young lady I will put you down.  Here, by  the
     way, you have a chance.'

     The carriage  was  traversing  that part  of  the Pincian  Garden
     which overhangs the  wall of  Rome  and overlooks  the  beautiful
     Villa  Borghese.  It is  bordered by a large parapet, near  which
     there are  several  seats.   One of the seats, at a distance, was
     occupied  by a gentleman and a lady, towards whom Mrs Walker gave
     a  toss of her head.  At the same  moment these  persons rose and
     walked towards the parapet. Winterbourne had asked  the  coachman
     to stop;  he  now descended from  the  carriage.   His  companion
     looked at him  a  moment in silence;  then, while  he  raised his
     hat,  she  drove majestically  away.  Winterbourne  stood  there;
     he had turned  his  eyes towards Daisy  and  her cavalier.   They
     evidently saw no  one; they  were  too deeply occupied  with each
     other.  When they reached the low garden-way  they stood a moment
     looking off at the great flat-topped pine-clusters  of  the Villa
     Borghese;  then Giovanelli  seated  himself  familiarly  upon the
     broad  ledge of the  wall.   The  western sun in the opposite sky
     sent  out  a  brilliant shaft  through  a  couple of  cloud-bars;
     whereupon  Daisy's companion  took her parasol out  of her  hands
     and opened it.  She came a little  nearer and he held the parasol
     over  her; then,  still  holding  it, he  let  it rest  upon  her
     shoulder, so that both their heads were hidden from
     Winterbourne.  This young man lingered a moment, then he began to
     walk.  But  he  walked ─ not towards the couple with the parasol;
     towards the residence of his aunt, Mrs Costello.



                                    4



     He  flattered  himself on the following  day that  there  was  no
     smiling  among the servants when  he,  at least,  asked  for  Mrs
     Miller at her hotel.   This lady and  her daughter, however, were
     not  at home;  and  on the  next day, after repeating  his visit,
     Winterbourne again had  the  misfortune  not  to find them.   Mrs
     Walker's party  took place on  the evening of the third  day, and
     in  spite  of  the  frigidity of  his  last  interview  with  the
     hostess, Winterbourne was among the guests. Mrs Walker was one of
     those American ladies who, while  residing  abroad, make a point,
     in their own  phrase, of studying European society; and  she  had
     on  this occasion collected  several  specimens of  her diversely
     born fellow-mortals to serve, as it  were, as text  books.   When
     Winterbourne  arrived Daisy Miller  was  not there;  but in a few
     moments  he  saw  her  mother  come  in  alone,  very  shyly  and
     ruefully.  Mrs Miller's  hair, above her exposed-looking temples,
     was  more  frizzled  than  ever.  As  she approached Mrs  Walker,
     Winterbourne also drew near.

     'You see  I've come all alone,' said  poor  Mrs Miller.   'I'm so
     frightened;  I don't know what to do;  it's  the  first time I've
     ever  been  to a  party  alone  ─  especially in this country.  I
     wanted to bring Randolph or  Eugenio, or someone, but  Daisy just
     pushed  me off by  myself.  I  ain't used  to going round alone.'

     'And  does  not your  daughter  intend  to  favour  us  with  her
     society?' demanded Mrs 'Walker, impressively.

     'Well, Daisy's all  dressed,' said  Mrs  Miller, with that accent
     of the  dispassionate, if  not the  philosophic,  historian  with
     which  she  always  recorded   the  current  incidents   of   her
     daughter's career.   'She's got dressed on purpose before dinner.
     But  she's  got  a friend of  hers  there; that  gentleman  ─ the
     Italian ─  that  she  wanted to bring.   They've got going at the
     piano; it  seems as  if they couldn't  leave  off.  Mr Giovanelli
     sings splendidly.  But  l  guess they'll come  before very long,'
     concluded Mrs Miller hopefully.

     'I'm  sorry she should  come ─  in  that  way,'  said Mrs Walker.

     'Well,  I told her that there  was no  use in her getting dressed
     before dinner  if she was going to wait  three  hours,' responded
     Daisy's mamma.   'I didn't  see the use of her putting  on such a
     dress as that to sit round with Mr Giovanelli.'

     'This  is most  horrible!' said  Mrs  Walker,  turning  away  and
     addressing  herself to  Winterbourne.  "Elle s'affiche".   [She's
     making  a spectacle  of herself.] It's  her revenge for my having
     ventured to  remonstrate  with her.  When she  comes I shall  not
     speak to her.'

     Daisy  came after eleven  o'clock, but  she was not, on  such  an
     occasion, a young lady to wait  to  be  spoken  to.   She rustled
     forward  in radiant loveliness, smiling  and chattering, carrying
     a large bouquet and attended by Mr Giovanelli.  Everyone  stopped
     talking and  turned and looked at her.  She  came straight to Mrs
     Walker.  'I'm afraid  you thought I never was coming,  so I  sent
     mother  off  to  tell  you.   I  wanted  to  make  Mr  Giovanelli
     practise some  things   before  he  came;   you  know  he   sings
     beautifully, and I want you to ask him to sing.   This is Mr Gio-
     vanelli; you know  I introduced  him  to  you; he's got the  most
     lovely voice and he knows the most  charming set of songs. I made
     him go over them this evening,  on  purpose;  we had the greatest
     time at the hotel.' Of all this Daisy delivered herself  with the
     sweetest,  brightest  audibleness, looking now at her hostess and
     now  round  the  room, while she  gave a  series  of little pats,
     round her shoulders, to the edges of her dress.  'Is there anyone
     I know?' she asked.

     'I  think  everyone knows you!'  said Mrs  Walker pregnantly, and
     she gave  a  very  cursory  greeting  to  Mr   Giovanelli.   This
     gentleman bore himself gallantly.  He smiled and bowed and showed
     his white teeth, he curled his  moustaches  and rolled  his eyes,
     and performed  all the proper functions of a  handsome Italian at
     an evening  party.   He sang, very prettily,  half a dozen songs,
     though Mrs  Walker afterwards declared  that she  had been  quite
     unable to find out who asked  him.   It was apparently not  Daisy
     who had given him his orders.  Daisy sat  at a distance from  the
     piano, and though she had publicly,  as it were, professed a high
     admiration for his singing, talked, not  inaudibly, while it  was
     going on.

     'It's  a pity these  rooms  are so  small;  we can't  dance,' she
     said  to  Winterbourne,  as  if  she  had  seen him five  minutes
     before.

     'I   am  not  sorry  we  can't  dance,'   Winterbourne  answered;
     'I don't dance.'

     'Of course you don't dance;  you're too stiff,' said Miss  Daisy.
     'I hope you enjoyed your drive with Mrs Walker.'

     'No  I  didn't  enjoy   it;  I  preferred   walking  with   you.'

     'We paired off, that  was  much better,' said Daisy. 'But did you
     ever hear  anything so cool  ask Mrs Walker's  wanting me  to get
     into her carriage and  drop  poor  Mr  Giovanelli;  and under the
     pretext that it was proper?   People  have  different  ideas!  It
     would have been most  unkind; he had been talking about that walk
     for ten days.'

     'He  should  not  have  talked  about it at  all,'  said  'Winter
     bourne; 'he  would  never have  proposed to  a young lady of this
     country to walk about the streets with him.'

     'About  the  streets?'  cried  Daisy'  with  her  pretty   stare.

     'Where then would he have proposed to  her to walk?   The  Pincio
     is  not the  streets, either; and  I, thank  goodness,  am  not a
     young lady  of  this country.   The young ladies  of this country
     have a  dreadfully poky  time of it, so  far  as I  can learn;  l
     don't see why I should change my habits for them.'

     'I am  afraid your habits  are  those of a  flirt,' said  Winter-
     bourne gravely.

     'Of course they  are,' she  cried, giving him her little  smiling
     stare again.  'I'm a fearful, frightful flirt!  Did you ever hear
     of a nice girl that was not?  But I suppose  you will tell me now
     that I am not a nice girl.'

     'You're  a very nice  girl, but I wish you  would flirt with  me,
     and me only,' said Winterbourne.

     'Ah!  thank  you,  thank you very  much; you  are the last man  l
     should think of  flirting  with.  As I have had the  pleasure  of
     informing you, you are too stiff.'

     'You say that too often,' said Winterbourne.

     Daisy gave a delighted laugh.   'If I  could have the  sweet hope
     of making you angry, I would say it again.'

     'Don't do that; when  I am angry I'm stiffer than  ever.   But if
     you won't flirt  with  me, do cease  at  least to flirt with your
     friend  at the  piano; they  don't  understand that sort of thing
     here.'

     'I  thought  they  understood  nothing  else!'  exclaimed  Daisy.

     'Not in young unmarried women.'

     'It seems  to me much  more proper in young unmarried  women than
     in old married ones,' Daisy declared.

     'Well,'   said  Winterbourne,   'when  you  deal   with   natives
     you  must go by the custom  of  the  place.  Flirting is a purely
     American  custom;  it  doesn't  exist  here.  So  when  you  show
     yourself  in public with Mr Giovanelli and without your mother ─'

     'Gracious! Poor mother!" interposed Daisy.

     'Though  you may be  flirting,  Mr  Giovanelli  is not; he  means
     something else.'

     'He isn't preaching,  at any rate,'  said  Daisy  with  vivacity.
     'And  if you  want  very  much  to  know, we  are  neither  of us
     flirting; we  are too good friends for that; we are very intimate
     friends.'

     'Ah,'  rejoined  Winterbourne,  'if  you  are  in love with  each
     other it is another affair.'

     She  had allowed  him up to this point to talk so frankly that he
     had no expectation  of shocking her by this ejaculation;  but she
     immediately got up, blushing visibly, and leaving  him to exclaim
     mentally  that little American flirts were the queerest creatures
     in  the  world.  'Mr Giovanelli, at least,'  she said, giving her
     interlocutor a single glance,  'never says such very disagreeable
     things to me.'

     Winterbourne was bewildered;  he stood  staring.   Mr  Giovanelli
     had finished singing; he left  the piano  and came over to Daisy.
     'Won't  you come into  the  other  room  and  have  some tea?' he
     asked,   bending  before   her   with   his   decorative   smile.

     Daisy turned to Winterbourne, beginning  to smile  again.  He was
     still more  perplexed,  for this inconsequent smile made  nothing
     clear,  though  it  seemed  to  prove,  indeed, that  she  had  a
     sweetness and softness that reverted instinctively  to the pardon
     of offences.  'It has never occurred to Mr Winterbourne to  offer
     me  any  tea,'  she  said, with  her  little  tormenting  manner.

     'I have offered you advice,' Winterbourne rejoined.

     'I prefer weak tea!'  cried Daisy,  and  she went  off  with  the
     brilliant Giovanelli.  She sat with him in the adjoining room, in
     the  embrasure ofthe window,  for the rest of the evening.  There
     was  an interesting performance  at  the  piano, but  neither  of
     these  young people  gave  heed to it.   When  Daisy came to take
     leave  of Mrs  Walker,  this  lady conscientiously  repaired  the
     weakness  of  which  she had turned her back  straight upon  Miss
     Miller  and  left her  to  depart  with  what  grace  she  might.
     Winterbourne  was standing near the door; he  saw it all.   Daisy
     turned very pale and looked at her mother,but Mrs Miller was hum-
     bly unconscious  of any violation  of the usual social forms. She
     appeared, indeed,  to  have  felt an incongruous impulse to  draw
     attention  to her own striking  observance of them.   'Goodnight,
     Mrs Walker,' she said; 'we've  had  a beautiful evening.  You see
     if  I let Daisy come to parties without me, I  don't want her  to
     go  away  without  me.' Daisy turned  away, looking with a  pale,
     grave  face  at the circle near the door; Winterbourne  saw that,
     for the  first moment, she  was too much shocked and puzzled even
     for  indignation.    He   on   his  side  was   greatly  touched.

     'That was very cruel,' he said to Mrs 'Walker.

     'She  never  enters  my drawing-room again,' replied his hostess.

     Since   Winterbourne  was   not  to  meet  her  in  Mrs  Walker's
     drawing-room, he  went  as  often  as  possible  to  Mrs Miller's
     hotel.  The ladies  were rarely  at home,  but when he found them
     the devoted  Giovanelli  was  always  present.   Very  often  the
     polished little woman  was in the drawing-room with Daisy  alone,
     Mrs  Miller  being  apparently  constantly  of the  opinion  that
     discretion  is  the  better part of  surveillance.   Winterbourne
     noted,  at first with surprise, that Daisy on these occasions was
     never  embarrassed or annoyed by  his own  entrance;  but he very
     presently began to feel that she had  no more sur prises for him;
     the unexpected in her behaviour was  the  only  thing  to expect.
     She showed no displeasure at  her "tête-à-tête" [private meeting]
     with  Giovanelli being  interrupted; she could chatter as freshly
     and  freely with two  gentlemen as with one; there was always, in
     her   conversation,  the  same   odd  mixture  of  audacity   and
     puerility.  Winterbourne  remarked to  himself that  if  she  was
     seriously interested in Giovanelli it was very  singular that she
     should not  take more trouble to  preserve the sanctity  of their
     interviews,and  he liked  her the  more  for her innocent-looking
     indifference  and her  apparently inexhaustible good  humour.  He
     could hardly  have said  why, but she  seemed to him  a  girl who
     would  never  be jealous.  At  the  risk  of  exciting a somewhat
     derisive  smile  on  the reader's  part, I may  affirm that  with
     regard to  the  women  who had  hitherto  interested  him it very
     often seemed to Winterbourne  among the possibilities that, given
     certain contingencies, he should be  afraid ─ literally afraid  ─
     of these ladies.  He had a pleasant sense that he should never be
     afraid of  Daisy Miller.   It  must  be added that that sentiment
     was not altogether flattering  to Daisy; it  was part of his con-
     viction, or rather of  his apprehension,  that  she would prove a
     very light young person.

     But she was evidently very much  interested in  Giovanelli.   She
     looked at him whenever he spoke; she was perpetually  telling him
     to  do  this and  to  do that; she was constantly 'chaffing'  and
     abusing him.   She  appeared  completely  to have  forgotten that
     Winterbourne had said  anything  to displease her at Mrs Walker's
     little party.  One Sunday afternoon, having gone  to  St  Peter's
     with his  aunt, Winterbourne  perceived Daisy strolling about the
     great  church  in  company   with  the   inevitable   Giovanelli.
     Presently he pointed out the young girl and  her  cavalier to Mrs
     Costello.   This  lady  looked  at  them  a  moment  through  her
     eyeglass, and then she said:

     'That's  what   makes  you  so   pensive  in  these  days,   eh?'

     'I had not the  least  idea I was pensive,'  said  the young man'

     'You  are very much  preoccupied, you are thinking of something.'

     'And  what is it,' he asked,  'that you  accuse  me  of  thinking
     of?'

     'Of that young lady's,  Miss Barker's,  Miss  Chandler's ─ what's
     her name?   ─ Miss  Miller's intrigue  with  that little barber's
     block.'

     'Do  you call it an intrigue,' Winterbourne asked  ─  'an  affair
     that goes on with such peculiar publicity?'

     'That's  their  folly,'  said   Mrs  Costello,  'it's  not  their
     merit.'

     'No,'   rejoined   'Winterbourne,    with   something   of   that
     pensiveness  to which his aunt  had  alluded.   'I don't  believe
     that there is anything to be called an intrigue.'

     'I have heard a dozen people speak of it; they say  she  is quite
     carried away by him.'

     'They   are   certainly   very   intimate,'  said   Winterbourne.

     Mrs Costello  inspected the young couple  again with her  optical
     instrument. 'He is very handsome. One easily sees how it is.  She
     thinks  him  the  most  elegant   man  inthe  world,  the  finest
     gentleman.  She has  never  seen any thing like him; he is better
     even than the courier. It was the courier probably who introduced
     him, and  if he  succeeds in marrying the young lady, the courier
     will come in for a magnificent commission.'

     'I don't believe she thinks of marrying him,' said
     Winterbourne,  'and  I  don't  believe  he hopes  to  marry her.'

     'You may  be very sure she thinks of nothing.   She goes  on from
     day to day, from hour to hour, as they did  in the Golden Age.  I
     can  imagine nothing  more vulgar.  And  at the same time,' added
     Mrs Costello,  'depend upon  it that she may  tell you any moment
     that she is 'engaged'.'

     'I  think   that   is   more  than  Giovanelli   expects,'   said
     Winterbourne.

     'Who is Giovanelli?'

     'The  little  Italian.   I have  asked  questions  about  him and
     learned  something.   He  is  apparently a perfectly  respectable
     little  man.   I believe  he  is  in a  small  way  a  "cavaliere
     avvocato" [gentleman  lawyer].  But he  doesn't move in what  are
     called the first circles. I think it is really not
     absolutely impossible that the courier introduced him. He is evi-
     dently  immensely charmed with Miss Miller.   If  she thinks  him
     the finest  gentleman in the  world, he,  on his side, has  never
     found himself  in  personal  contact with  such  splendour,  such
     opulence, such expensiveness, as this young lady's. And  then she
     must seem to him  wonderfully  pretty and  interesting.  I rather
     doubt whether he dreams of marrying her.  That must appear to him
     too impossible a piece of luck.  He has nothing  but his handsome
     face to  offer, and  there  is a substantial  Mr Miller  in  that
     mysterious land of dollars.   Giovanelli knows that  he  hasn't a
     little to  offer.   If  he  were only  a  count or  a  "marchese"
     [marquis]!  He must wonder at his luck at the way they have taken
     him up.'

     'He accounts  for  it  by  his  handsome  face,  and  thinks Miss
     Miller a young  lady "qui se passe des fantaisies"!  [capricious]
     ' said Mrs Costello.

     'It  is very  true,'  Winterbourne pursued,  'that Daisy  and her
     mamma  have not yet risen  to that stage of ─  what  shall I call
     it?  ─  of culture,  at which  the idea of catching a count or  a
     "marchese"  [marquis] begins.  I believe that they  are intellec-
     tually incapable of that conception.'

     'Ah!  but the  cavaliere [gentleman]  can't believe it,' said Mrs
     Costello.

     Of   the    observation    excited    by   Daisy's    'intrigue',
     Winterbourne  gathered  that   day   at   St  Peter's  sufficient
     evidence.  A dozen of the American colonists in Rome came to talk
     with Mrs Costello,  who sat  on a little  portable  stool at  the
     base of one of the great pilasters.  The vesper-service was going
     forward  in  splendid  chants and  organ-tones  in  the  adjacent
     choir,  and  meanwhile,  between Mrs Costello  and  her  friends,
     there  was a  great deal said  about poor  little  Miss  Miller's
     going really 'too  far'.  Winterbourne  was not pleased with what
     he heard;  but when, coming out  upon  the  great  steps  of  the
     church, he  saw  Daisy,  who had emerged before him, get  into  a
     open  cab with her accomplice and roll  away  through the cynical
     streets of  Rome, he could not deny to himself that she was going
     very far indeed.  He felt very sorry  for her ─  not exactly that
     he believed that  she had completely lost her  head,  but because
     it was painful to hear so  much  that was  pretty and  undefended
     and natural assigned to a  vulgar place among  the categories  of
     disorder.  He made an attempt  after  this to give a  hint to Mrs
     Miller.  He met  one day in the  Corso a friend ─ a tourist  like
     himself ─ who had  just  come  out of the Doria palace, where  he
     had been walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked
     for a  moment  about  the  superb   portrait  of  Innocent  V  by
     Velazquez, which hangs in one of  the cabinets of the palace, and
     then  said, 'And in the  same  cabinet,  by  the way,  I  had the
     pleasure of  contemplating  a  picture of a different kind ─ that
     pretty American girl whom  you pointed  out to me last  week.' In
     answer to  Winterbourne's   inquiries, his  friend narrated  that
     the   pretty  American  girl   ─   prettier  than  ever   ─   was
     seated with a companion in  the secluded nook in which  the great
     papal portrait is enshrined.

     'Who was her companion?' asked 'Winterbourne.

     'A little Italian with a bouquet in his buttonhole.   The girl is
     delightfully  pretty, but I  thought I  understood from  you  the
     other  day that  she was a  young  lady  "du meilleur monde." [of
     good breeding]'

     'So   she   is!'   answered   Winterbourne;  and  having  assured
     himself that his informant had  seen Daisy and  her companion but
     five  minutes before,  he jumped into a  cab and went to  call on
     Mrs Miller.   She  was at home;  but she  apologized  to  him for
     receiving him in Daisy's absence.

     'She's gone out  somewhere with  Mr Giovanelli,' said Mrs Miller.
     'She's always going round with Mr Giovanelli.'

     'I  have  noticed  that  they  are  very  intimate,' Winterbourne
     observed.

     'Oh!  it seems  as  if  they  couldn't live  without each other!'
     said Mrs Miller.   'Well, he's a real  gentleman, anyhow.  I keep
     telling Daisy say?'

     'And what does Daisy say?'

     'Oh, she says  she isn't engaged.  But  she  might as  well  be!'
     this impartial parent resumed.  'She goes  on as if she was.  But
     I've made Mr Giovanelli promise to tell  me,  if she  doesn't.  I
     should want to  write  to  Mr Miller  about  it─ shouldn't  you?'

     Winterbourne replied that  he  certainly should; and the state of
     mind  of Daisy's  mamma  struck him  as so  unprecedented  in the
     annals   of  parental  vigilance  that  he  gave  up  as  utterly
     irrelevant the attempt to place her upon her guard.

     After this Daisy  was never at  home, and  Winterbourne ceased to
     meet  her at  the houses of their  common acquaintances, because,
     as he perceived,  these  shrewd  people  had quite made  up their
     minds that she was going too far.  They ceased to invite her, and
     they  intimated   that  they  desired  to  express  to  observant
     Europeans  the great truth that, though Miss Daisy  Miller  was a
     young American lady,  her  behaviour was not  representative ─was
     regarded by  her compatriots as abnormal.   Winterbourne wondered
     how she  felt  about  all the  cold  shoulders  that were  turned
     towards her,  and sometimes  it  annoyed him to suspect that  she
     did not feel  at all.  He said to himself that she was too  light
     and childish, too uncultivated and  unreasoning,  too provincial,
     to have  reflected upon her ostracism  or even to have  perceived
     it.  Then at  other moments he believed that she carried about in
     her  elegant  and   irresponsible  little  organism  a   defiant,
     passionate, perfectly  observant consciousness of the  impression
     she produced. He asked himself whether Daisy's defiance came from
     the  consciousness of  innocence  or from her being, essentially,
     a young person of the reckless class.  It  must be  admitted that
     holding  oneself to a belief in Daisy's 'innocence' came to  seem
     to  Winterbourne more  and more  a matter of fine-spun gallantry.
     As I have  already had  occasion  to  relate,  he  was  angry  at
     finding himself reduced to  chopping logic about this young lady;
     he was vexed at his want of instinctive certitude as to how far
     her eccentricities were genetic,  national, and how far they were
     personal.   From either  view of them he had  somehow missed her,
     and  now  it  was  too  late.   She  was  'carried  away'  by  Mr
     Giovanelli.

     A  few  days  after his  brief  interview  with  her  mother,  he
     encountered her in  that beautiful abode  of flowering desolation
     known as the palace  of the Caesars.  The  early Roman spring had
     filled the air with bloom  and perfume, and the rugged surface of
     the  Palatine  was  muffled   with  tender  verdure.   Daisy  was
     strolling along  the  top  of one  of  those great mounds of ruin
     that  are embanked with  mossy marble and paved  with  monumental
     inscriptions.  It  seemed to  him  that  Rome  had never  been so
     lovely as  just  then.  He  stood  looking  off at the enchanting
     harmony of line and colour that remotely encircles the
     city, inhaling the  softly humid odours and feeling the freshness
     of  the year and  the antiquity of the place  reaffirm themselves
     in mysterious interfusion.  It seemed to him  also that Daisy had
     never looked so  pretty; but this had been an observation  of his
     whenever  he  met  her.     Giovanelli  was   at  her  side,  and
     Giovanelli,  too, wore an  aspect  of even  unwonted  brilliancy.

     'Well,' said Daisy, 'I  should  think  you would  be lonesome!'

     'Lonesome?' asked Winterbourne.

     'You are  always going  round by yourself.  Can't  you get anyone
     to walk with you?'

     'I   am  not  so  fortunate,'  said   'Winterbourne,   'as   your
     companion.'

     Giovanelli,  from the   first,   had   treated  Winterbourne with
     distinguished politeness; he  listened  with a deferential air to
     his remarks;  he  laughed, punctiliously, at his pleasantries; he
     seemed disposed to testify  to his belief that Winterbourne was a
     superior young man.   He  carried himself  in  no degree  like  a
     jealous wooer; he  had obviously  a great deal of tact; he had no
     objection to  your expecting a  little humility of him.   It even
     seemed  to Winterbourne at times that  Giovanelli  would  find  a
     certain  mental  relief in  being  able to  have  a private under
     standing with him  ─ to say  to him, as an intelligent man, that,
     bless you, <he> knew  how extraordinary was this young lady,  and
     didn't  flatter  himself  with  delusive  ─  or  at  least  <too>
     delusive ─  hopes of matrimony and dollars.  On this  occasion he
     strolled  away  from  his companion to  pluck a  sprig  of almond
     blossom,  which  he  carefully   arranged  in  his   button-hole.

     'I know why  you say  that,'  said  Daisy, watching  Gio vanelli.

     'Because  you think  I go  round  too much  with  <him>!' And she
     nodded at her attendant.

     'Everyone  thinks  so ─ if you care to know,' said Winter bourne.

     'Of  course  I   care  to  know!'   Daisy  exclaimed   seriously.

     'But I  don't  believe  it.  'They  are  only  pretending  to  be
     shocked.  They don't really  care a straw what I do.   Besides, I
     don't go round so much.'

     'I think  you  will  find  they  do care.  They will  show  it  ─
     disagreeably.'

     Daisy looked at him a moment. 'How ─ disagreeably?'

     'Haven't you noticed  anything?   ─ Winterbourne  asked.  'I have
     noticed you.  But I noticed you were as stiff as an  umbrella the
     first time I saw you.

     'You  will  find I  am  not  so  stiff as  several  others,' said
     Winterbourne, smiling.

     'How shall I find it?'

     'By going to see the others.'

     'What  will they  do  to me?'    'They  will  give  you the  cold
     shoulder. Do you know what that means?'

     Daisy  was  looking   at  him  intently;  she  began  to  colour.

     'Do you mean as Mrs Walker did the other night?'

     'Exactly!' said Winterbourne.

     She looked away  at  Giovanelli,  who was decorating himself with
     his  almond blossom.   Then  looking  back at Winterbourne  ─  'I
     shouldn't  think  you would  let  people be so unkind!' she said.

     'How can I help it?' he asked.

     'I should think you would say something.'

     'I  do say  something'; and he paused a moment.  'I say that your
     mother  tells   me   that   she  believes  you   are  engaged.'

     'Well, she does,' said Daisy very simply.

     Winterbourne began to  laugh.  'And does Randolph believe it?' he
     asked.

     'I  guess  Randolph   doesn't  believe  anything,'  said   Daisy.
     Randolph's  scepticism excited Winterbourne  to further hilarity,
     and  he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them.  Daisy,
     observing it too,  addressed herself to her  countryman.   'Since
     you   have  mentioned  it,'   she  said,   'I  <am>  engaged.'...
     Winterbourne  looked at her; he had stopped laughing.  'You don't
     believe it!' she added.

     He was  silent a moment;  and then, 'Yes, I believe it!' he said.

     'Oh,  no, you  don't,'  she answered.  'Well,  then ─ I  am not!'

     The  young girl and  her cicerone  [guide] were on their  way  to
     the  gate of  the  enclosure, so that  Winterbourne, who  had but
     lately entered, presently took  leave of them.  A week afterwards
     he  went to dine at a beautiful villa on  the Caelian  Hill, and,
     on   arriving,  dismissed  his  hired  vehicle. The  evening  was
     charming, and  he  promised  himself the satisfaction  of walking
     home beneath the Arch  of Constantine and pas the vaguely lighted
     monuments of the  Forum.  There was a waning moon in the sky, and
     her  radiance was not  brilliant,  but she was veiled  in a  thin
     cloud-curtain which seemed to diffuse and equalize  it.  When, on
     his return from the villa (it was eleven  o'clock),  Winterbourne
     approached the dusky  circle of  the  Colosseum,  it  occurred to
     him, as a  lover of the picturesque,  that  the  interior, in the
     pale moonshine, would be well  worth  a  glance.  He turned aside
     and  walked  to  one  of  the  empty  arches, near  which, as  he
     observed, an open carriage ─ one of the little  Roman street-cabs
     ─ was stationed.  Then he  passed in  among the cavernous shadows
     of the  great  structure, and  emerged upon the clear  and silent
     arena.  The place had never seemed to  him more  impressive.  One
     half  of the gigantic circus was  in  deep  shade;  the other was
     sleeping  in the luminous  dusk.  As he stood  there  he began to
     murmur Byron's famous  lines, out of  Manfred; but  before he had
     finished   his   quotation  he  remembered   that   if  nocturnal
     meditations in  the Colosseum are recommended  by the poets, they
     are  deprecated  by the  doctors.?  The  historic atmosphere  was
     there,  certainly; but  the  historic  atmosphere, scientifically
     considered, was no better than a villainous miasma.  Winterbourne
     walked to  the  middle  of  the arena,  to  take  a  more general
     glance, intending thereafter  to make a hasty retreat.  The great
     cross in  the centre  was covered with shadow;  it was only as he
     drew near it that  he made it out distinctly.  Then he  saw  that
     two  persons  were stationed upon the low steps which  formed its
     base.   One of these was  a  woman,  seated;  her  companion  was
     standing in front of her.

     Presently the sound  of the woman's voice came  to him distinctly
     in  the warm night air.  'Well, he  looks at us as one of the old
     lions  or tigers may have looked at the Christian martyrs!' These
     were  the  words he heard,  in the familiar accent  of Miss Daisy
     Miller.

     'Let  us  hope he  is not  very  hungry,' responded the ingenious
     Giovanelli.  'He will have to  take me first; you will serve  for
     dessert!'

     Winterbourne stopped, with  a  sort  of  horror; and, it must  be
     added, with a sort of relief.  It was as if a sudden illumination
     had been flashed upon the ambiguity  of Daisy's behaviour and the
     riddle had  become  easy  to read.   She was a young  lady whom a
     gentleman need no longer be at pains to respect.  He  stood there
     looking at her ─ looking at her  companion,  and  not  reflecting
     that though  he saw them vaguely, he himself  must have been more
     brightly  visible.  He  felt  angry  with  himself  that  he  had
     bothered so much  about the right way  of  regarding bliss  Daisy
     Miller.   Then, as  he was going  to  advance  again,  he checked
     himself;  not from the  fear that he was doing her injustice, but
     from a sense of the danger of appearing  unbecomingly exhilarated
     by this sudden revulsion from cautious criticism.  He turned away
     towards the  entrance of  the  place; but as he did so  he  heard
     Daisy speak again.

     'Why, it was Mr  Winterbourne!  He  saw me  ─ and  he  cuts  me!'

     What  a  clever  little  reprobate she was,  and how  smartly she
     played  an  injured   innocence!   But   he   wouldn't  cut  her.
     Winterbourne  came  forward  again, and  went towards  the  great
     cross.  Daisy had got up; Giovanelli lifted his hat. Winterbourne
     had  now begun to think  simply of the craziness, from a sanitary
     point  of  view,  of  a  delicate young girl  lounging  away  the
     evening  in  this nest of malaria.  What  if she <were> a  clever
     little reprobate?  That was no reason  for her dying of the "per-
     niciosa"  [malaria].  'How  long  have  you been here?' he asked,
     almost brutally.

     Daisy, lovely  in  the  flattering  moonlight,  looked  at  him a
     moment.  Then ─ 'All the evening,' she answered gently . .  .  'I
     never saw anything so pretty.'

     'I am  afraid,'  said  'Winterbourne, 'that  you  will not  think
     Roman fever  very pretty.   This is the way people catch  it.   I
     wonder,' he  added,  turning to Giovanelli,  'that you,  a native
     Roman,   should  countenance   such  a   terrible  indiscretion.'

     'Ah,' said  the  handsome native, 'for myself,  I am not afraid.'

     'Neither  am  I ─ for you!  I am  speaking for this  young lady.'

     Giovanelli  lifted  his  well-shaped   eyebrows  and  showed  his
     brilliant  teeth.   But   he  took  Winterbourne's  rebuke   with
     docility.  'I told the Signorina it was a grave indiscretion; but
     when was the Signorina ever prudent?'

     'I  never  was sick,  and  I  don't  mean to  be!' the  Signorina
     declared.  'I don't look like much, but I'm healthy!  I was bound
     to see  the Colosseum by moonlight; I shouldn't have wanted to go
     home  without  that; and we  have had the  most  beautiful  time,
     haven't we, Mr Giovanelli!  If there has been any danger, Eugenio
     can give  me some  pills.   He  has  got  some  splendid  pills.'

     'I should  advise you,' said  Winterbourne,  'to  drive  home  as
     fast as possible and take one!'

     'What you say is  very wise,'  Giovanelli  rejoined.  'I will  go
     and  make sure  the carriage is  at hand.'  And he  went  forward
     rapidly.

     Daisy followed with  Winterbourne.   He kept  looking ather;  she
     seemed not in the least embarrassed.  Winterbourne said  nothing;
     Daisy chattered about the beauty of the place. 'Well, I have seen
     the Colosseum  by  moonlight!'  she exclaimed.  'That's one  good
     thing.' Then,  noticing Winterbourne's silence, she asked him why
     he didn't speak.  He made no answer; he only began tolaugh.  They
     passed  under  one  of  the  dark  archways;   Giovanelli was  in
     front  with  the  carriage.   Here   Daisy   stopped  a   moment,
     looking at the young American.   '<Did> you believe I was engaged
     the other day?' she asked.

     'It  doesn't   matter   what  believed   the  other  day,'   said
     Winterbourne, still laughing.

     'Well, what do you believe now?'

     'I believe that it makes very little difference  whether you  are
     engaged or not!'

     He  felt the  young girl's pretty eyes fixed upon him through the
     thick gloom of the archway; she  was apparently  going to answer.
     But Giovanelli hurried  her  forward.  'Quick,  quick,' he  said;
     'if we get in by midnight we are quite safe.'

     Daisy took her  seat in  the carriage, and the fortunate  Italian
     placed himself beside her.   'Don't forget Eugenio's pills!' said
     'Winterbourne, as he lifted his hat.

     'I  don't care,'  said Daisy, in a little strange tone,'whether I
     have Roman  fever or not!' Upon this  the cab driver  cracked his
     whip, and they rolled  away  over  the  desultory patches of  the
     antique pavement.

     Winterbourne  ─ to do him  justice, as it were ─ mentioned  to no
     one  that  he had  encountered Miss Miller,  at midnight, in  the
     Colosseum with  a gentleman; but nevertheless, a  couple of  days
     later,   the  fact  of   her   having   been  there  under  these
     circumstances  was known  to every  member of the little American
     circle, and commented  accordingly.  'Winterbourne reflected that
     they of course known  it  at the hotel, and  that,  after Daisy's
     return, there had been an  exchange of  jokes between the  porter
     and  the cab-driver.  But the young man was conscious at the same
     moment that  it had ceased  to be a  matter of serious regret  to
     him that the little American  flirt should be 'talked  about'  by
     low-minded  menials.   These people,  a  day or  two  later,  had
     serious   information to give;  the  little  American  flirt  was
     alarmingly  ill.  Winterbourne,  when  the  rumour  came to  him,
     immediately went  to  the hotel for more news.  He found that two
     or three charitable friends  had preceded him  and that they were
     being  entertained   in  Mrs   Miller's  salon   by   Randolph.

     'It's  going round  at night,' said Randolph  ─ 'that's what made
     her sick.  She's always going round at night.  I  shouldn't think
     she'd want  to ─ it's  so plaguey  dark.   You can't see anything
     here  at night, except  when there's a moon.   In America there's
     always a moon!' Mrs  Miller was invisible; she was now, at least,
     giving her daughter the advantage of her society.  It was evident
     that Daisy was dangerously ill.

     'Winterbourne went  often  to ask for news  of her,  and once  he
     saw Mrs Miller, who, though deeply alarmed,  was ─  rather to his
     surprise  ─ perfectly  composed,  and,  as  it appeared,  a  most
     efficient and judicious nurse.   She talked a good deal  about Dr
     Davis, but Winterbourne  paid  her the  compliment  of saying  to
     himself that  she was not,  after  all, such  a  monstrous goose.
     'Daisy spoke of you  the other day,'  she said to him.  'Half the
     time she  doesn't know what she's saying, but  that time I  think
     she did.  She gave me a message; she  told  me to tell you.   She
     told  me to tell  you that she never was engaged to that handsome
     Italian.  I am  sure I  am very glad;  Mr Giovanelli  hasn't been
     near us since she was taken ill.  I  thought he was so much of  a
     gentleman; but  I don't call  that very polite!  A lady  told  me
     that he  was  afraid I was angry with  him for taking Daisy round
     at night.  Well, so I am;  but I suppose he knows I'm a lady.   I
     would scorn to scold him.  Anyway, she says she's not engaged.  I
     don't  know why she wanted you to know; but she said to me  three
     times  ─ 'Mind you tell Mr Winterbourne.' And then she told me to
     ask  if you  remembered  the  time you  went to  that  castle, in
     Switzerland.   But  I  said I  wouldn't give any such messages as
     that.  Only, if she is not  engaged, I'm  sure  I'm glad to  know
     it.'

     But,  as Winterbourne had said,  it mattered very little.  A week
     after this  the poor girl  died;  it had  been a terrible case of
     the fever.  Daisy's grave  was in the little protestant cemetery,
     in  an angle of the wall of imperial  Rome, beneath the cypresses
     and the thick  spring flowers.  Winterbourne  stood  there beside
     it, with  a number of  other mourners;  a number larger than  the
     scandal excited by the young lady's career would have led you  to
     expect.  Near him stood Giovanelli, who came nearer still  before
     Winterbourne turned  away.  Giovanelli was  very  pale;  on  this
     occasion  he had no flower in his button-hole;  he seemed to wish
     to say something.  At last he  said, 'She  was the most beautiful
     young lady I ever saw, and the most amiable.'  And then he  added
     in a moment, 'And she was the most innocent.'

     Winterbourne looked  at  him,  and  presently repeated his words,
     'And the most innocent?'

     'The most innocent!'

     'Winterbourne  felt sore and angry.   'Why  the devil,' he asked,
     'did you take her to that fatal place?'

     Mr Giovanelli's  urbanity  was  apparently  imperturb  able.   He
     looked on the ground a moment,  and then he said, 'For myself,  I
     had no fear; and she wanted to go.'

     'That was no reason!' Winterbourne declared.

     The  subtle Roman again dropped  his eyes.  'If  she  had lived I
     should have got nothing.   She would never have married me, I  am
     sure.'

     'She would never have married you?'

     'For a moment I hoped so. But no, I am sure.'

     'Winterbourne  listened  to  him; he  stood  staring  at the  raw
     protuberance among the April daisies.  'When he turned away again
     Mr   Giovanelli,  with  his  light   slow   step,   had  retired.

     Winterbourne  almost  immediately  left Rome;  but  the following
     summer  he  again  met  his  aunt,  Mrs  Costello, at Vevey.  Mrs
     Costello  was  fond of  Vevey.  In the interval Winterbourne  had
     often  thought  of Daisy  Miller and her mystifying manners.  One
     day he spoke  of her to his  aunt ─ said it was on his conscience
     that he had done her injustice.

     'I  am  sure  I don't know,' said  Mrs Costello.   'How  did your
     injustice affect her?'

     'She  sent  me  a  message  before  her  death  which   I  didn't
     understand  at  the  time.  But  I have understood it since.  She
     would have appreciated one's esteem.'

     'Is that a modest way,' asked Mrs  Costello, 'of saying  that she
     would have reciprocated one's affection?'

     Winterbourne  offered  no  answer   to  this  question;   but  he
     presently  said, 'You were  right  in that remark that  you  made
     last summer.  I was booked to make a mistake.   I have lived  too
     long in foreign parts.'

     Nevertheless,  he  went  back  to live  at  Geneva, whence  there
     continue to come  the most contradictory accounts of his  motives
     of sojourn: a report that he  is  'studying' hard ─ an intimation
     that  he is  much  interested  in  a  very clever  foreign  lady.