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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. | No speaker | other, it is another affair."<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"Mr. Giovanelli, at least," she | are in love with each other, it is another affair."<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"Mr. Giovanelli, at least," she said, giving her interlocutor a | 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."<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 | 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."<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 ornamental 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 | I could have the sweet hope of making you angry, I should 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."<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been | 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; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne 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 I 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 should 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."<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 | so I sent mother off to tell you. I wanted to make Mr. Giovanelli practice some things before he came; you know he sings beautifully, and I want you to ask him to sing. This is Mr. Giovanelli; 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 every one 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 mustaches 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 afterward 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 as 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 Winterbourne; "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; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne 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 I 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 should 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."<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 | time of it, so far as I can learn; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne 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 I 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 should 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."<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman was in the drawing room with Daisy alone, Mrs. Miller being apparently constantly of the opinion that discretion is | Daisy Miller |
"Mr. Giovanelli, at least," | Daisy Miller | queerest creatures in the world.<|quote|>"Mr. Giovanelli, at least,"</|quote|>she said, giving her interlocutor | little American flirts were the queerest creatures in the world.<|quote|>"Mr. Giovanelli, at least,"</|quote|>she said, giving her interlocutor a single glance, "never says | 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.<|quote|>"Mr. Giovanelli, at least,"</|quote|>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, | 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.<|quote|>"Mr. Giovanelli, at least,"</|quote|>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 ornamental 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 offenses. "It has | 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.<|quote|>"Mr. Giovanelli, at least,"</|quote|>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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment | this country. The young ladies of this country have a dreadfully poky time of it, so far as I can learn; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne 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 I 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 should 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.<|quote|>"Mr. Giovanelli, at least,"</|quote|>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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 | 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 every one 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 mustaches 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 afterward 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 as 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 Winterbourne; "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; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne 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 I 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 should 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.<|quote|>"Mr. Giovanelli, at least,"</|quote|>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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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?" | that too often," said Winterbourne. Daisy gave a delighted laugh. "If I could have the sweet hope of making you angry, I should 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.<|quote|>"Mr. Giovanelli, at least,"</|quote|>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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young | Daisy Miller |
she said, giving her interlocutor a single glance, | No speaker | world. "Mr. Giovanelli, at least,"<|quote|>she said, giving her interlocutor a single glance,</|quote|>"never says such very disagreeable | the queerest creatures in the world. "Mr. Giovanelli, at least,"<|quote|>she said, giving her interlocutor a single glance,</|quote|>"never says such very disagreeable things to me." Winterbourne was | 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,"<|quote|>she said, giving her interlocutor a single glance,</|quote|>"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 ornamental smile. Daisy | 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,"<|quote|>she said, giving her interlocutor a single glance,</|quote|>"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 ornamental 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 offenses. "It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me | 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,"<|quote|>she said, giving her interlocutor a single glance,</|quote|>"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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She turned | ladies of this country have a dreadfully poky time of it, so far as I can learn; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne 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 I 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 should 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,"<|quote|>she said, giving her interlocutor a single glance,</|quote|>"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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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. | 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 every one 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 mustaches 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 afterward 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 as 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 Winterbourne; "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; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne 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 I 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 should 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,"<|quote|>she said, giving her interlocutor a single glance,</|quote|>"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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 | 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 I 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 should 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,"<|quote|>she said, giving her interlocutor a single glance,</|quote|>"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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete with Giovanelli being | Daisy Miller |
"never says such very disagreeable things to me." | Daisy Miller | her interlocutor a single glance,<|quote|>"never says such very disagreeable things to me."</|quote|>Winterbourne was bewildered; he stood, | at least," she said, giving her interlocutor a single glance,<|quote|>"never says such very disagreeable things to me."</|quote|>Winterbourne was bewildered; he stood, staring. Mr. Giovanelli had finished | 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,<|quote|>"never says such very disagreeable things to me."</|quote|>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 ornamental smile. Daisy turned to Winterbourne, beginning to smile again. He | "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,<|quote|>"never says such very disagreeable things to me."</|quote|>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 ornamental 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 offenses. "It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea," she said with her little tormenting | 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,<|quote|>"never says such very disagreeable things to me."</|quote|>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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She turned her back straight upon Miss Miller and left | time of it, so far as I can learn; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne 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 I 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 should 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,<|quote|>"never says such very disagreeable things to me."</|quote|>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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman was in | 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 every one 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 mustaches 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 afterward 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 as 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 Winterbourne; "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; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne 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 I 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 should 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,<|quote|>"never says such very disagreeable things to me."</|quote|>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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 | 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 as 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 Winterbourne; "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; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne 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 I 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 should 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,<|quote|>"never says such very disagreeable things to me."</|quote|>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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, Mrs. Walker," she said; "we ve had a beautiful evening. You see, if I let Daisy come to parties without me, I don t | Daisy Miller |
Winterbourne was bewildered; he stood, staring. Mr. Giovanelli had finished singing. He left the piano and came over to Daisy. | No speaker | very disagreeable things to me."<|quote|>Winterbourne was bewildered; he stood, staring. Mr. Giovanelli had finished singing. He left the piano and came over to Daisy.</|quote|>"Won t you come into | single glance, "never says such very disagreeable things to me."<|quote|>Winterbourne was bewildered; he stood, staring. Mr. Giovanelli had finished singing. He left the piano and came over to Daisy.</|quote|>"Won t you come into the other room and have | 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."<|quote|>Winterbourne was bewildered; he stood, staring. Mr. Giovanelli had finished singing. He left the piano and came over to Daisy.</|quote|>"Won t you come into the other room and have some tea?" he asked, bending before her with his ornamental 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 | 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."<|quote|>Winterbourne was bewildered; he stood, staring. Mr. Giovanelli had finished singing. He left the piano and came over to Daisy.</|quote|>"Won t you come into the other room and have some tea?" he asked, bending before her with his ornamental 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 offenses. "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 | 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."<|quote|>Winterbourne was bewildered; he stood, staring. Mr. Giovanelli had finished singing. He left the piano and came over to Daisy.</|quote|>"Won t you come into the other room and have some tea?" he asked, bending before her with his ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 | learn; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne 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 I 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 should 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."<|quote|>Winterbourne was bewildered; he stood, staring. Mr. Giovanelli had finished singing. He left the piano and came over to Daisy.</|quote|>"Won t you come into the other room and have some tea?" he asked, bending before her with his ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman was in the drawing room with Daisy alone, Mrs. Miller being apparently constantly of the opinion that discretion is the better part | 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 every one 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 mustaches 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 afterward 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 as 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 Winterbourne; "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; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne 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 I 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 should 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."<|quote|>Winterbourne was bewildered; he stood, staring. Mr. Giovanelli had finished singing. He left the piano and came over to Daisy.</|quote|>"Won t you come into the other room and have some tea?" he asked, bending before her with his ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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?" | THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne 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 I 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 should 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."<|quote|>Winterbourne was bewildered; he stood, staring. Mr. Giovanelli had finished singing. He left the piano and came over to Daisy.</|quote|>"Won t you come into the other room and have some tea?" he asked, bending before her with his ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 | Daisy Miller |
"Won t you come into the other room and have some tea?" | Mr. Giovanelli | and came over to Daisy.<|quote|>"Won t you come into the other room and have some tea?"</|quote|>he asked, bending before her | singing. He left the piano and came over to Daisy.<|quote|>"Won t you come into the other room and have some tea?"</|quote|>he asked, bending before her with his ornamental smile. Daisy | 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.<|quote|>"Won t you come into the other room and have some tea?"</|quote|>he asked, bending before her with his ornamental 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 offenses. | 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.<|quote|>"Won t you come into the other room and have some tea?"</|quote|>he asked, bending before her with his ornamental 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 offenses. "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 | 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.<|quote|>"Won t you come into the other room and have some tea?"</|quote|>he asked, bending before her with his ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly | of a flirt," said Winterbourne 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 I 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 should 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.<|quote|>"Won t you come into the other room and have some tea?"</|quote|>he asked, bending before her with his ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 | 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 every one 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 mustaches 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 afterward 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 as 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 Winterbourne; "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; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne 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 I 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 should 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.<|quote|>"Won t you come into the other room and have some tea?"</|quote|>he asked, bending before her with his ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker s, Miss Chandler s--what s her | 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 as 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 Winterbourne; "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; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne 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 I 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 should 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.<|quote|>"Won t you come into the other room and have some tea?"</|quote|>he asked, bending before her with his ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly unconscious of any violation of the usual | Daisy Miller |
he asked, bending before her with his ornamental 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 offenses. | No speaker | room and have some tea?"<|quote|>he asked, bending before her with his ornamental 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 offenses.</|quote|>"It has never occurred to | you come into the other room and have some tea?"<|quote|>he asked, bending before her with his ornamental 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 offenses.</|quote|>"It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me | 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?"<|quote|>he asked, bending before her with his ornamental 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 offenses.</|quote|>"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 | 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?"<|quote|>he asked, bending before her with his ornamental 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 offenses.</|quote|>"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 of the 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 been guilty at | 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?"<|quote|>he asked, bending before her with his ornamental 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 offenses.</|quote|>"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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, Mrs. Walker," she said; "we ve had a beautiful evening. You see, if I let Daisy come to parties without | 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 I 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 should 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?"<|quote|>he asked, bending before her with his ornamental 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 offenses.</|quote|>"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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete with Giovanelli being interrupted; she could chatter | 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 every one 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 mustaches 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 afterward 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 as 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 Winterbourne; "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; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne 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 I 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 should 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?"<|quote|>he asked, bending before her with his ornamental 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 offenses.</|quote|>"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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 | had been talking about that walk for ten days." "He should not have talked about it at all," said Winterbourne; "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; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne 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 I 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 should 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?"<|quote|>he asked, bending before her with his ornamental 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 offenses.</|quote|>"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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 | Daisy Miller |
"It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea," | Daisy Miller | to the pardon of offenses.<|quote|>"It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea,"</|quote|>she said with her little | and softness that reverted instinctively to the pardon of offenses.<|quote|>"It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea,"</|quote|>she said with her little tormenting manner. "I have offered | he asked, bending before her with his ornamental 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 offenses.<|quote|>"It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea,"</|quote|>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 of the window, for the rest of the evening. There was | 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 ornamental 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 offenses.<|quote|>"It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea,"</|quote|>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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She turned her back | 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 ornamental 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 offenses.<|quote|>"It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea,"</|quote|>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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 | flirt with me, and me only," said Winterbourne. "Ah! thank you--thank you very much; you are the last man I 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 should 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 ornamental 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 offenses.<|quote|>"It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea,"</|quote|>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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete with Giovanelli being interrupted; she could chatter as freshly and freely with two gentlemen as with one; there was | He smiled and bowed and showed his white teeth; he curled his mustaches 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 afterward 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 as 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 Winterbourne; "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; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne 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 I 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 should 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 ornamental 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 offenses.<|quote|>"It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea,"</|quote|>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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 | 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 ornamental 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 offenses.<|quote|>"It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea,"</|quote|>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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 | Daisy Miller |
she said with her little tormenting manner. | No speaker | to offer me any tea,"<|quote|>she said with her little tormenting manner.</|quote|>"I have offered you advice," | never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea,"<|quote|>she said with her little tormenting manner.</|quote|>"I have offered you advice," Winterbourne rejoined. "I prefer weak | 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 offenses. "It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea,"<|quote|>she said with her little tormenting manner.</|quote|>"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 of the window, for the rest of the evening. There was an interesting performance at the piano, but | 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea,"<|quote|>she said with her little tormenting manner.</|quote|>"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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She turned her back straight upon Miss Miller and left her | 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea,"<|quote|>she said with her little tormenting manner.</|quote|>"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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 | very much; you are the last man I 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 should 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea,"<|quote|>she said with her little tormenting manner.</|quote|>"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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 | mustaches 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 afterward 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 as 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 Winterbourne; "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; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne 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 I 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 should 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea,"<|quote|>she said with her little tormenting manner.</|quote|>"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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 | 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea,"<|quote|>she said with her little tormenting manner.</|quote|>"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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman was in the drawing room with Daisy alone, Mrs. Miller being apparently constantly | Daisy Miller |
"I have offered you advice," | Winterbourne | with her little tormenting manner.<|quote|>"I have offered you advice,"</|quote|>Winterbourne rejoined. "I prefer weak | me any tea," she said with her little tormenting manner.<|quote|>"I have offered you advice,"</|quote|>Winterbourne rejoined. "I prefer weak tea!" cried Daisy, and she | 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 offenses. "It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea," she said with her little tormenting manner.<|quote|>"I have offered you advice,"</|quote|>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 of the window, for the rest of the evening. There was an interesting performance at the piano, but neither of these young people | 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea," she said with her little tormenting manner.<|quote|>"I have offered you advice,"</|quote|>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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She turned her back straight upon Miss Miller and left her to depart with what grace | 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea," she said with her little tormenting manner.<|quote|>"I have offered you advice,"</|quote|>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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 | I 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 should 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea," she said with her little tormenting manner.<|quote|>"I have offered you advice,"</|quote|>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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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. | all the proper functions of a handsome Italian at an evening party. He sang very prettily half a dozen songs, though Mrs. Walker afterward 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 as 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 Winterbourne; "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; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne 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 I 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 should 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea," she said with her little tormenting manner.<|quote|>"I have offered you advice,"</|quote|>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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 | thank you--thank you very much; you are the last man I 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 should 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea," she said with her little tormenting manner.<|quote|>"I have offered you advice,"</|quote|>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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was | Daisy Miller |
Winterbourne rejoined. | No speaker | "I have offered you advice,"<|quote|>Winterbourne rejoined.</|quote|>"I prefer weak tea!" cried | with her little tormenting manner. "I have offered you advice,"<|quote|>Winterbourne rejoined.</|quote|>"I prefer weak tea!" cried Daisy, and she went off | 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 offenses. "It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea," she said with her little tormenting manner. "I have offered you advice,"<|quote|>Winterbourne rejoined.</|quote|>"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 of the window, for the rest of the evening. There was an interesting performance at the piano, but neither of these young people gave heed | 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea," she said with her little tormenting manner. "I have offered you advice,"<|quote|>Winterbourne rejoined.</|quote|>"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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She turned her back straight upon Miss Miller and left her to depart with what grace she might. | 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea," she said with her little tormenting manner. "I have offered you advice,"<|quote|>Winterbourne rejoined.</|quote|>"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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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; | 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 should 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea," she said with her little tormenting manner. "I have offered you advice,"<|quote|>Winterbourne rejoined.</|quote|>"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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 | a handsome Italian at an evening party. He sang very prettily half a dozen songs, though Mrs. Walker afterward 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 as 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 Winterbourne; "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; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne 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 I 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 should 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea," she said with her little tormenting manner. "I have offered you advice,"<|quote|>Winterbourne rejoined.</|quote|>"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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 | 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea," she said with her little tormenting manner. "I have offered you advice,"<|quote|>Winterbourne rejoined.</|quote|>"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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed | Daisy Miller |
"I prefer weak tea!" | Daisy Miller | offered you advice," Winterbourne rejoined.<|quote|>"I prefer weak tea!"</|quote|>cried Daisy, and she went | little tormenting manner. "I have offered you advice," Winterbourne rejoined.<|quote|>"I prefer weak tea!"</|quote|>cried Daisy, and she went off with the brilliant Giovanelli. | made nothing clear, though it seemed to prove, indeed, that she had a sweetness and softness that reverted instinctively to the pardon of offenses. "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.<|quote|>"I prefer weak tea!"</|quote|>cried Daisy, and she went off with the brilliant Giovanelli. She sat with him in the adjoining room, in the embrasure of the 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 | 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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.<|quote|>"I prefer weak tea!"</|quote|>cried Daisy, and she went off with the brilliant Giovanelli. She sat with him in the adjoining room, in the embrasure of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She turned her back straight upon Miss Miller and left her to depart with what grace she might. Winterbourne was standing near | 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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.<|quote|>"I prefer weak tea!"</|quote|>cried Daisy, and she went off with the brilliant Giovanelli. She sat with him in the adjoining room, in the embrasure of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 | 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 should 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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.<|quote|>"I prefer weak tea!"</|quote|>cried Daisy, and she went off with the brilliant Giovanelli. She sat with him in the adjoining room, in the embrasure of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 | Italian at an evening party. He sang very prettily half a dozen songs, though Mrs. Walker afterward 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 as 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 Winterbourne; "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; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne 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 I 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 should 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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.<|quote|>"I prefer weak tea!"</|quote|>cried Daisy, and she went off with the brilliant Giovanelli. She sat with him in the adjoining room, in the embrasure of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 | 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 should 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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.<|quote|>"I prefer weak tea!"</|quote|>cried Daisy, and she went off with the brilliant Giovanelli. She sat with him in the adjoining room, in the embrasure of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 | Daisy Miller |
cried Daisy, and she went off with the brilliant Giovanelli. She sat with him in the adjoining room, in the embrasure of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. | No speaker | rejoined. "I prefer weak tea!"<|quote|>cried Daisy, and she went off with the brilliant Giovanelli. She sat with him in the adjoining room, in the embrasure of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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.</|quote|>"Good night, Mrs. Walker," she | have offered you advice," Winterbourne rejoined. "I prefer weak tea!"<|quote|>cried Daisy, and she went off with the brilliant Giovanelli. She sat with him in the adjoining room, in the embrasure of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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.</|quote|>"Good night, Mrs. Walker," she said; "we ve had a | it seemed to prove, indeed, that she had a sweetness and softness that reverted instinctively to the pardon of offenses. "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!"<|quote|>cried Daisy, and she went off with the brilliant Giovanelli. She sat with him in the adjoining room, in the embrasure of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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.</|quote|>"Good night, 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 | 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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!"<|quote|>cried Daisy, and she went off with the brilliant Giovanelli. She sat with him in the adjoining room, in the embrasure of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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.</|quote|>"Good night, 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. | 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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!"<|quote|>cried Daisy, and she went off with the brilliant Giovanelli. She sat with him in the adjoining room, in the embrasure of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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.</|quote|>"Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in | 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 should 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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!"<|quote|>cried Daisy, and she went off with the brilliant Giovanelli. She sat with him in the adjoining room, in the embrasure of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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.</|quote|>"Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, or rather of his apprehension, that she would prove | party. He sang very prettily half a dozen songs, though Mrs. Walker afterward 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 as 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 Winterbourne; "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; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne 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 I 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 should 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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!"<|quote|>cried Daisy, and she went off with the brilliant Giovanelli. She sat with him in the adjoining room, in the embrasure of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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.</|quote|>"Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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 | 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; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne 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 I 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 should 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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!"<|quote|>cried Daisy, and she went off with the brilliant Giovanelli. She sat with him in the adjoining room, in the embrasure of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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.</|quote|>"Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 | Daisy Miller |
"Good night, Mrs. Walker," | Mrs. Miller | own striking observance of them.<|quote|>"Good night, Mrs. Walker,"</|quote|>she said; "we ve had | to draw attention to her own striking observance of them.<|quote|>"Good night, Mrs. Walker,"</|quote|>she said; "we ve had a beautiful evening. You see, | standing near the door; he saw it all. Daisy turned very pale and looked at her mother, but Mrs. Miller was humbly 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.<|quote|>"Good night, Mrs. Walker,"</|quote|>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 | When Daisy came to take leave of Mrs. Walker, this lady conscientiously repaired the weakness of which she had been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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.<|quote|>"Good night, Mrs. Walker,"</|quote|>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, | clear, though it seemed to prove, indeed, that she had a sweetness and softness that reverted instinctively to the pardon of offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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.<|quote|>"Good night, Mrs. Walker,"</|quote|>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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the | 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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.<|quote|>"Good night, Mrs. Walker,"</|quote|>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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, or rather of his apprehension, that she would prove a very light young | said Daisy. "But did you ever hear anything so cool as 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 Winterbourne; "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; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne 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 I 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 should 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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.<|quote|>"Good night, Mrs. Walker,"</|quote|>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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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 | 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 should 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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.<|quote|>"Good night, Mrs. Walker,"</|quote|>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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 | Daisy Miller |
she said; | No speaker | them. "Good night, Mrs. Walker,"<|quote|>she said;</|quote|>"we ve had a beautiful | her own striking observance of them. "Good night, Mrs. Walker,"<|quote|>she said;</|quote|>"we ve had a beautiful evening. You see, if I | he saw it all. Daisy turned very pale and looked at her mother, but Mrs. Miller was humbly 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. "Good night, Mrs. Walker,"<|quote|>she said;</|quote|>"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 | take leave of Mrs. Walker, this lady conscientiously repaired the weakness of which she had been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, Mrs. Walker,"<|quote|>she said;</|quote|>"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 | to prove, indeed, that she had a sweetness and softness that reverted instinctively to the pardon of offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, Mrs. Walker,"<|quote|>she said;</|quote|>"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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing | 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, Mrs. Walker,"<|quote|>she said;</|quote|>"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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, or rather of his apprehension, that she would prove a very light young person. But | you ever hear anything so cool as 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 Winterbourne; "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; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne 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 I 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 should 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, Mrs. Walker,"<|quote|>she said;</|quote|>"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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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 | 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, Mrs. Walker,"<|quote|>she said;</|quote|>"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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, or rather of his apprehension, that she would prove a very light young person. But she was evidently very | Daisy Miller |
"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." | Mrs. Miller | night, Mrs. Walker," she said;<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>Daisy turned away, looking with | striking observance of them. "Good night, Mrs. Walker," she said;<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>Daisy turned away, looking with a pale, grave face at | it all. Daisy turned very pale and looked at her mother, but Mrs. Miller was humbly 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. "Good night, Mrs. Walker," she said;<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>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 | of Mrs. Walker, this lady conscientiously repaired the weakness of which she had been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, Mrs. Walker," she said;<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>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 | indeed, that she had a sweetness and softness that reverted instinctively to the pardon of offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, Mrs. Walker," she said;<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete with Giovanelli being interrupted; she could chatter as freshly and freely with two gentlemen as with one; there | 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, Mrs. Walker," she said;<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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; | hear anything so cool as 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 Winterbourne; "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; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne 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 I 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 should 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, Mrs. Walker," she said;<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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 | 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, Mrs. Walker," she said;<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, or rather of his apprehension, that she would prove a very light young person. But she was evidently very | Daisy Miller |
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. | No speaker | to go away without me."<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"That was very cruel," he | I don t want her to go away without me."<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"That was very cruel," he said to Mrs. Walker. "She | indeed, to have felt an incongruous impulse to draw attention to her own striking observance of them. "Good night, 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."<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 | 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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."<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 brilliant little Roman 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 | 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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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."<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 | 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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."<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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, | 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 Winterbourne; "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; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne 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 I 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 should 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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."<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. But he doesn t move in what are called the first circles. I think it | 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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."<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 | Daisy Miller |
"That was very cruel," | Winterbourne | his side was greatly touched.<|quote|>"That was very cruel,"</|quote|>he said to Mrs. Walker. | even for indignation. He on his side was greatly touched.<|quote|>"That was very cruel,"</|quote|>he said to Mrs. Walker. "She never enters my drawing | 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.<|quote|>"That was very cruel,"</|quote|>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, | 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. "Good night, 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.<|quote|>"That was very cruel,"</|quote|>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 brilliant little Roman 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 | embrasure of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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.<|quote|>"That was very cruel,"</|quote|>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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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; | 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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.<|quote|>"That was very cruel,"</|quote|>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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 | 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; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne 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 I 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 should 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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.<|quote|>"That was very cruel,"</|quote|>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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. But he doesn t move in what are called the first circles. I think it is really not absolutely | 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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.<|quote|>"That was very cruel,"</|quote|>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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 |
he said to Mrs. Walker. | No speaker | touched. "That was very cruel,"<|quote|>he said to Mrs. Walker.</|quote|>"She never enters my drawing | on his side was greatly touched. "That was very cruel,"<|quote|>he said to Mrs. Walker.</|quote|>"She never enters my drawing room again!" replied his hostess. | 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,"<|quote|>he said to Mrs. Walker.</|quote|>"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 | of the usual social forms. She appeared, indeed, to have felt an incongruous impulse to draw attention to her own striking observance of them. "Good night, 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,"<|quote|>he said to Mrs. Walker.</|quote|>"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 brilliant little Roman 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 | 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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,"<|quote|>he said to Mrs. Walker.</|quote|>"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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 | 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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,"<|quote|>he said to Mrs. Walker.</|quote|>"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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 | 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; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne 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 I 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 should 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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,"<|quote|>he said to Mrs. Walker.</|quote|>"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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. But he doesn t move in what are called the first circles. I think it is really not absolutely impossible that the courier introduced | 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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,"<|quote|>he said to Mrs. Walker.</|quote|>"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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 | Daisy Miller |
"She never enters my drawing room again!" | Mrs. Walker | he said to Mrs. Walker.<|quote|>"She never enters my drawing room again!"</|quote|>replied his hostess. Since Winterbourne | touched. "That was very cruel," he said to Mrs. Walker.<|quote|>"She never enters my drawing room again!"</|quote|>replied his hostess. Since Winterbourne was not to meet her | 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.<|quote|>"She never enters my drawing room again!"</|quote|>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 brilliant little Roman | She appeared, indeed, to have felt an incongruous impulse to draw attention to her own striking observance of them. "Good night, 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.<|quote|>"She never enters my drawing room again!"</|quote|>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 brilliant little Roman 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 | 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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.<|quote|>"She never enters my drawing room again!"</|quote|>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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 | 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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.<|quote|>"She never enters my drawing room again!"</|quote|>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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 | 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; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne 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 I 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 should 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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.<|quote|>"She never enters my drawing room again!"</|quote|>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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently immensely charmed with | 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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.<|quote|>"She never enters my drawing room again!"</|quote|>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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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. | Daisy Miller |
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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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: | No speaker | enters my drawing room again!"<|quote|>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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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:</|quote|>"That s what makes you | to Mrs. Walker. "She never enters my drawing room again!"<|quote|>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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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:</|quote|>"That s what makes you so pensive in these days, | 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!"<|quote|>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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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:</|quote|>"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 | incongruous impulse to draw attention to her own striking observance of them. "Good night, 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!"<|quote|>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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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:</|quote|>"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 Baker 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 | 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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!"<|quote|>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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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:</|quote|>"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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything like him; he is better, even, than the courier. It was | 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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!"<|quote|>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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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:</|quote|>"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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 | 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; I don t see why I should change my habits for THEM." "I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt," said Winterbourne 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 I 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 should 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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!"<|quote|>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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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:</|quote|>"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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 | 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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!"<|quote|>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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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:</|quote|>"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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. But he doesn t move in what are called the first | Daisy Miller |
"That s what makes you so pensive in these days, eh?" | Mrs. Costello | eyeglass, and then she said:<|quote|>"That s what makes you so pensive in these days, eh?"</|quote|>"I had not the least | them a moment through her eyeglass, and then she said:<|quote|>"That s what makes you so pensive in these days, eh?"</|quote|>"I had not the least idea I was pensive," said | 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:<|quote|>"That s what makes you so pensive in these days, eh?"</|quote|>"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 Baker s, Miss Chandler s--what s her name?--Miss Miller | 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:<|quote|>"That s what makes you so pensive in these days, eh?"</|quote|>"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 Baker 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 | 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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:<|quote|>"That s what makes you so pensive in these days, eh?"</|quote|>"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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything like him; he is better, even, than the courier. It was the courier probably who introduced him; and if he succeeds in | s hotel. The ladies were rarely at home, but when he found them, the devoted Giovanelli was always present. Very often the brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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:<|quote|>"That s what makes you so pensive in these days, eh?"</|quote|>"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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And | 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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:<|quote|>"That s what makes you so pensive in these days, eh?"</|quote|>"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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 | but when he found them, the devoted Giovanelli was always present. Very often the brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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:<|quote|>"That s what makes you so pensive in these days, eh?"</|quote|>"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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true," Winterbourne pursued, "that Daisy and her mamma have not yet | Daisy Miller |
"I had not the least idea I was pensive," | Winterbourne | pensive in these days, eh?"<|quote|>"I had not the least idea I was pensive,"</|quote|>said the young man. "You | s what makes you so pensive in these days, eh?"<|quote|>"I had not the least idea I was pensive,"</|quote|>said the young man. "You are very much preoccupied; you | 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?"<|quote|>"I had not the least idea I was pensive,"</|quote|>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 Baker s, Miss Chandler s--what s her name?--Miss Miller s intrigue with that little barber s block." "Do | 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?"<|quote|>"I had not the least idea I was pensive,"</|quote|>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 Baker 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 | 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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?"<|quote|>"I had not the least idea I was pensive,"</|quote|>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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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 | found them, the devoted Giovanelli was always present. Very often the brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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?"<|quote|>"I had not the least idea I was pensive,"</|quote|>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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and | 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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?"<|quote|>"I had not the least idea I was pensive,"</|quote|>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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 | 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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?"<|quote|>"I had not the least idea I was pensive,"</|quote|>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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 | Daisy Miller |
said the young man. | No speaker | least idea I was pensive,"<|quote|>said the young man.</|quote|>"You are very much preoccupied; | eh?" "I had not the least idea I was pensive,"<|quote|>said the young man.</|quote|>"You are very much preoccupied; you are thinking of something." | 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,"<|quote|>said the young man.</|quote|>"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 Baker s, Miss Chandler s--what s her name?--Miss Miller s intrigue with that little barber s block." "Do you call it an | 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,"<|quote|>said the young man.</|quote|>"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 Baker 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 | 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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,"<|quote|>said the young man.</|quote|>"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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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." | often the brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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,"<|quote|>said the young man.</|quote|>"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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt | 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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,"<|quote|>said the young man.</|quote|>"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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez which | saw it all. Daisy turned very pale and looked at her mother, but Mrs. Miller was humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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,"<|quote|>said the young man.</|quote|>"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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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 | Daisy Miller |
"You are very much preoccupied; you are thinking of something." | Mrs. Costello | pensive," said the young man.<|quote|>"You are very much preoccupied; you are thinking of something."</|quote|>"And what is it," he | the least idea I was pensive," said the young man.<|quote|>"You are very much preoccupied; you are thinking of something."</|quote|>"And what is it," he asked, "that you accuse me | 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.<|quote|>"You are very much preoccupied; you are thinking of something."</|quote|>"And what is it," he asked, "that you accuse me of thinking of?" "Of that young lady s--Miss Baker 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 | 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.<|quote|>"You are very much preoccupied; you are thinking of something."</|quote|>"And what is it," he asked, "that you accuse me of thinking of?" "Of that young lady s--Miss Baker 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; | 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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.<|quote|>"You are very much preoccupied; you are thinking of something."</|quote|>"And what is it," he asked, "that you accuse me of thinking of?" "Of that young lady s--Miss Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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 | Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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.<|quote|>"You are very much preoccupied; you are thinking of something."</|quote|>"And what is it," he asked, "that you accuse me of thinking of?" "Of that young lady s--Miss Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that he dreams of marrying her. That must appear to | 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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.<|quote|>"You are very much preoccupied; you are thinking of something."</|quote|>"And what is it," he asked, "that you accuse me of thinking of?" "Of that young lady s--Miss Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and | liked her the more for her innocent-looking indifference and her apparently inexhaustible good humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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.<|quote|>"You are very much preoccupied; you are thinking of something."</|quote|>"And what is it," he asked, "that you accuse me of thinking of?" "Of that young lady s--Miss Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 | Daisy Miller |
"And what is it," | Winterbourne | you are thinking of something."<|quote|>"And what is it,"</|quote|>he asked, "that you accuse | "You are very much preoccupied; you are thinking of something."<|quote|>"And what is it,"</|quote|>he asked, "that you accuse me of thinking of?" "Of | 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."<|quote|>"And what is it,"</|quote|>he asked, "that you accuse me of thinking of?" "Of that young lady s--Miss Baker 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 | 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."<|quote|>"And what is it,"</|quote|>he asked, "that you accuse me of thinking of?" "Of that young lady s--Miss Baker 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 | 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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."<|quote|>"And what is it,"</|quote|>he asked, "that you accuse me of thinking of?" "Of that young lady s--Miss Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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 | 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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."<|quote|>"And what is it,"</|quote|>he asked, "that you accuse me of thinking of?" "Of that young lady s--Miss Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that he dreams of marrying her. That must appear to him too impossible a | 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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."<|quote|>"And what is it,"</|quote|>he asked, "that you accuse me of thinking of?" "Of that young lady s--Miss Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said, "And in | ladies were rarely at home, but when he found them, the devoted Giovanelli was always present. Very often the brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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."<|quote|>"And what is it,"</|quote|>he asked, "that you accuse me of thinking of?" "Of that young lady s--Miss Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently immensely | Daisy Miller |
he asked, | No speaker | something." "And what is it,"<|quote|>he asked,</|quote|>"that you accuse me of | preoccupied; you are thinking of something." "And what is it,"<|quote|>he asked,</|quote|>"that you accuse me of thinking of?" "Of that young | 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,"<|quote|>he asked,</|quote|>"that you accuse me of thinking of?" "Of that young lady s--Miss Baker 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," | 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,"<|quote|>he asked,</|quote|>"that you accuse me of thinking of?" "Of that young lady s--Miss Baker 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 | 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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,"<|quote|>he asked,</|quote|>"that you accuse me of thinking of?" "Of that young lady s--Miss Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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 | 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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,"<|quote|>he asked,</|quote|>"that you accuse me of thinking of?" "Of that young lady s--Miss Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that he dreams of marrying her. That must appear to him too impossible a piece of | 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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,"<|quote|>he asked,</|quote|>"that you accuse me of thinking of?" "Of that young lady s--Miss Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said, "And in the same | 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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,"<|quote|>he asked,</|quote|>"that you accuse me of thinking of?" "Of that young lady s--Miss Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And | Daisy Miller |
"that you accuse me of thinking of?" | Winterbourne | what is it," he asked,<|quote|>"that you accuse me of thinking of?"</|quote|>"Of that young lady s--Miss | are thinking of something." "And what is it," he asked,<|quote|>"that you accuse me of thinking of?"</|quote|>"Of that young lady s--Miss Baker s, Miss Chandler s--what | 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,<|quote|>"that you accuse me of thinking of?"</|quote|>"Of that young lady s--Miss Baker 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 | 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,<|quote|>"that you accuse me of thinking of?"</|quote|>"Of that young lady s--Miss Baker 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 | 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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,<|quote|>"that you accuse me of thinking of?"</|quote|>"Of that young lady s--Miss Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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 | 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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,<|quote|>"that you accuse me of thinking of?"</|quote|>"Of that young lady s--Miss Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that he dreams of marrying her. That must appear to him too impossible a piece of luck. He has nothing but his handsome | 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 ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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,<|quote|>"that you accuse me of thinking of?"</|quote|>"Of that young lady s--Miss Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said, "And in the same cabinet, by the way, I had the | 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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,<|quote|>"that you accuse me of thinking of?"</|quote|>"Of that young lady s--Miss Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 | Daisy Miller |
"Of that young lady s--Miss Baker s, Miss Chandler s--what s her name?--Miss Miller s intrigue with that little barber s block." | Mrs. Costello | accuse me of thinking of?"<|quote|>"Of that young lady s--Miss Baker s, Miss Chandler s--what s her name?--Miss Miller s intrigue with that little barber s block."</|quote|>"Do you call it an | it," he asked, "that you accuse me of thinking of?"<|quote|>"Of that young lady s--Miss Baker s, Miss Chandler s--what s her name?--Miss Miller s intrigue with that little barber s block."</|quote|>"Do you call it an intrigue," Winterbourne asked--" "an affair | 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?"<|quote|>"Of that young lady s--Miss Baker s, Miss Chandler s--what s her name?--Miss Miller s intrigue with that little barber s block."</|quote|>"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 | 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?"<|quote|>"Of that young lady s--Miss Baker s, Miss Chandler s--what s her name?--Miss Miller s intrigue with that little barber s block."</|quote|>"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 | a pleasant sense that he should never be afraid of Daisy Miller. It must be added that this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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?"<|quote|>"Of that young lady s--Miss Baker s, Miss Chandler s--what s her name?--Miss Miller s intrigue with that little barber s block."</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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 | 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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?"<|quote|>"Of that young lady s--Miss Baker s, Miss Chandler s--what s her name?--Miss Miller s intrigue with that little barber s block."</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 | "Won t you come into the other room and have some tea?" he asked, bending before her with his ornamental 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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?"<|quote|>"Of that young lady s--Miss Baker s, Miss Chandler s--what s her name?--Miss Miller s intrigue with that little barber s block."</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 | 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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?"<|quote|>"Of that young lady s--Miss Baker s, Miss Chandler s--what s her name?--Miss Miller s intrigue with that little barber s block."</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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 | Daisy Miller |
"Do you call it an intrigue," | Winterbourne | that little barber s block."<|quote|>"Do you call it an intrigue,"</|quote|>Winterbourne asked--" "an affair that | name?--Miss Miller s intrigue with that little barber s block."<|quote|>"Do you call it an intrigue,"</|quote|>Winterbourne asked--" "an affair that goes on with such peculiar | 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 Baker s, Miss Chandler s--what s her name?--Miss Miller s intrigue with that little barber s block."<|quote|>"Do you call it an intrigue,"</|quote|>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." | 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 Baker s, Miss Chandler s--what s her name?--Miss Miller s intrigue with that little barber s block."<|quote|>"Do you call it an intrigue,"</|quote|>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 | flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker s, Miss Chandler s--what s her name?--Miss Miller s intrigue with that little barber s block."<|quote|>"Do you call it an intrigue,"</|quote|>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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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 | but he very presently began to feel that she had no more surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker s, Miss Chandler s--what s her name?--Miss Miller s intrigue with that little barber s block."<|quote|>"Do you call it an intrigue,"</|quote|>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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he | 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker s, Miss Chandler s--what s her name?--Miss Miller s intrigue with that little barber s block."<|quote|>"Do you call it an intrigue,"</|quote|>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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 | 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker s, Miss Chandler s--what s her name?--Miss Miller s intrigue with that little barber s block."<|quote|>"Do you call it an intrigue,"</|quote|>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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He | Daisy Miller |
Winterbourne asked--" | No speaker | you call it an intrigue,"<|quote|>Winterbourne asked--"</|quote|>"an affair that goes on | little barber s block." "Do you call it an intrigue,"<|quote|>Winterbourne asked--"</|quote|>"an affair that goes on with such peculiar publicity?" "That | 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 Baker s, Miss Chandler s--what s her name?--Miss Miller s intrigue with that little barber s block." "Do you call it an intrigue,"<|quote|>Winterbourne asked--"</|quote|>"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 | 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 Baker s, Miss Chandler s--what s her name?--Miss Miller s intrigue with that little barber s block." "Do you call it an intrigue,"<|quote|>Winterbourne asked--"</|quote|>"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 | of his conviction, 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 Baker s, Miss Chandler s--what s her name?--Miss Miller s intrigue with that little barber s block." "Do you call it an intrigue,"<|quote|>Winterbourne asked--"</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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 | feel that she had no more surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker s, Miss Chandler s--what s her name?--Miss Miller s intrigue with that little barber s block." "Do you call it an intrigue,"<|quote|>Winterbourne asked--"</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only | 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker s, Miss Chandler s--what s her name?--Miss Miller s intrigue with that little barber s block." "Do you call it an intrigue,"<|quote|>Winterbourne asked--"</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 | 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker s, Miss Chandler s--what s her name?--Miss Miller s intrigue with that little barber s block." "Do you call it an intrigue,"<|quote|>Winterbourne asked--"</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 | Daisy Miller |
"an affair that goes on with such peculiar publicity?" | Winterbourne | it an intrigue," Winterbourne asked--"<|quote|>"an affair that goes on with such peculiar publicity?"</|quote|>"That s their folly," said | s block." "Do you call it an intrigue," Winterbourne asked--"<|quote|>"an affair that goes on with such peculiar publicity?"</|quote|>"That s their folly," said Mrs. Costello; "it s not | 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 Baker 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--"<|quote|>"an affair that goes on with such peculiar publicity?"</|quote|>"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 | 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 Baker 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--"<|quote|>"an affair that goes on with such peculiar publicity?"</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has | conviction, 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 Baker 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--"<|quote|>"an affair that goes on with such peculiar publicity?"</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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, | she had no more surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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--"<|quote|>"an affair that goes on with such peculiar publicity?"</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at | 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 offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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--"<|quote|>"an affair that goes on with such peculiar publicity?"</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 | 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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--"<|quote|>"an affair that goes on with such peculiar publicity?"</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 | Daisy Miller |
"That s their folly," | Mrs. Costello | on with such peculiar publicity?"<|quote|>"That s their folly,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Costello; "it s | asked--" "an affair that goes on with such peculiar publicity?"<|quote|>"That s their folly,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Costello; "it s not their merit." "No," rejoined | is it," he asked, "that you accuse me of thinking of?" "Of that young lady s--Miss Baker 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?"<|quote|>"That s their folly,"</|quote|>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 | 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 Baker 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?"<|quote|>"That s their folly,"</|quote|>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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything like | 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 Baker 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?"<|quote|>"That s their folly,"</|quote|>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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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 | in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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?"<|quote|>"That s their folly,"</|quote|>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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the | nothing clear, though it seemed to prove, indeed, that she had a sweetness and softness that reverted instinctively to the pardon of offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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?"<|quote|>"That s their folly,"</|quote|>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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 | 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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?"<|quote|>"That s their folly,"</|quote|>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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. But he doesn t move in | Daisy Miller |
said Mrs. Costello; | No speaker | publicity?" "That s their folly,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Costello;</|quote|>"it s not their merit." | goes on with such peculiar publicity?" "That s their folly,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Costello;</|quote|>"it s not their merit." "No," rejoined Winterbourne, with something | "that you accuse me of thinking of?" "Of that young lady s--Miss Baker 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,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Costello;</|quote|>"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." | 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 Baker 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,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Costello;</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything like him; he is | 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 Baker 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,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Costello;</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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 | the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Costello;</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have | seemed to prove, indeed, that she had a sweetness and softness that reverted instinctively to the pardon of offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Costello;</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 | when he found them, the devoted Giovanelli was always present. Very often the brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Costello;</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 | Daisy Miller |
"it s not their merit." | Mrs. Costello | their folly," said Mrs. Costello;<|quote|>"it s not their merit."</|quote|>"No," rejoined Winterbourne, with something | such peculiar publicity?" "That s their folly," said Mrs. Costello;<|quote|>"it s not their merit."</|quote|>"No," rejoined Winterbourne, with something of that pensiveness to which | me of thinking of?" "Of that young lady s--Miss Baker 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;<|quote|>"it s not their merit."</|quote|>"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," | 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 Baker 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;<|quote|>"it s not their merit."</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything like him; he is better, even, than the courier. | 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 Baker 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;<|quote|>"it s not their merit."</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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 | to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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;<|quote|>"it s not their merit."</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up." "He accounts | indeed, that she had a sweetness and softness that reverted instinctively to the pardon of offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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;<|quote|>"it s not their merit."</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was | he found them, the devoted Giovanelli was always present. Very often the brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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;<|quote|>"it s not their merit."</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it," said Mrs. Costello. Of the observation excited by Daisy s "intrigue," Winterbourne gathered that day at | Daisy Miller |
"No," | Winterbourne | "it s not their merit."<|quote|>"No,"</|quote|>rejoined Winterbourne, with something of | their folly," said Mrs. Costello; "it s not their merit."<|quote|>"No,"</|quote|>rejoined Winterbourne, with something of that pensiveness to which his | that young lady s--Miss Baker 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."<|quote|>"No,"</|quote|>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 | 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 Baker 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."<|quote|>"No,"</|quote|>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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything like him; he is better, even, than the courier. It | 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 Baker 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."<|quote|>"No,"</|quote|>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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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 | displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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."<|quote|>"No,"</|quote|>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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up." "He accounts for | sweetness and softness that reverted instinctively to the pardon of offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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."<|quote|>"No,"</|quote|>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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was enshrined. | 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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."<|quote|>"No,"</|quote|>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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 | Daisy Miller |
rejoined Winterbourne, with something of that pensiveness to which his aunt had alluded. | No speaker | s not their merit." "No,"<|quote|>rejoined Winterbourne, with something of that pensiveness to which his aunt had alluded.</|quote|>"I don t believe that | folly," said Mrs. Costello; "it s not their merit." "No,"<|quote|>rejoined Winterbourne, with something of that pensiveness to which his aunt had alluded.</|quote|>"I don t believe that there is anything to be | young lady s--Miss Baker 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,"<|quote|>rejoined Winterbourne, with something of that pensiveness to which his aunt had alluded.</|quote|>"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 | 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 Baker 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,"<|quote|>rejoined Winterbourne, with something of that pensiveness to which his aunt had alluded.</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything like him; he is better, even, than the courier. It was the courier probably who introduced him; and if he succeeds in marrying | 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 Baker 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,"<|quote|>rejoined Winterbourne, with something of that pensiveness to which his aunt had alluded.</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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 | at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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,"<|quote|>rejoined Winterbourne, with something of that pensiveness to which his aunt had alluded.</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 | and softness that reverted instinctively to the pardon of offenses. "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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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,"<|quote|>rejoined Winterbourne, with something of that pensiveness to which his aunt had alluded.</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was enshrined. "Who was her companion?" asked Winterbourne. "A little Italian with a bouquet in | part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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,"<|quote|>rejoined Winterbourne, with something of that pensiveness to which his aunt had alluded.</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up." "He accounts for it by | Daisy Miller |
"I don t believe that there is anything to be called an intrigue." | Winterbourne | which his aunt had alluded.<|quote|>"I don t believe that there is anything to be called an intrigue."</|quote|>"I have heard a dozen | something of that pensiveness to which his aunt had alluded.<|quote|>"I don t believe that there is anything to be called an intrigue."</|quote|>"I have heard a dozen people speak of it; they | 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.<|quote|>"I don t believe that there is anything to be called an intrigue."</|quote|>"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 | 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 Baker 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.<|quote|>"I don t believe that there is anything to be called an intrigue."</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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 | 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 Baker 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.<|quote|>"I don t believe that there is anything to be called an intrigue."</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. | 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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.<|quote|>"I don t believe that there is anything to be called an intrigue."</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true," Winterbourne pursued, | 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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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.<|quote|>"I don t believe that there is anything to be called an intrigue."</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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 | 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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.<|quote|>"I don t believe that there is anything to be called an intrigue."</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently immensely charmed with Miss Miller. If she thinks him the finest gentleman in the world, he, | Daisy Miller |
"I have heard a dozen people speak of it; they say she is quite carried away by him." | Mrs. Costello | to be called an intrigue."<|quote|>"I have heard a dozen people speak of it; they say she is quite carried away by him."</|quote|>"They are certainly very intimate," | believe that there is anything to be called an intrigue."<|quote|>"I have heard a dozen people speak of it; they say she is quite carried away by him."</|quote|>"They are certainly very intimate," said Winterbourne. Mrs. Costello inspected | 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."<|quote|>"I have heard a dozen people speak of it; they say she is quite carried away by him."</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything like him; he is | 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 Baker 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."<|quote|>"I have heard a dozen people speak of it; they say she is quite carried away by him."</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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 | 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 Baker 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."<|quote|>"I have heard a dozen people speak of it; they say she is quite carried away by him."</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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 | 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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."<|quote|>"I have heard a dozen people speak of it; they say she is quite carried away by him."</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 | 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 of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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."<|quote|>"I have heard a dozen people speak of it; they say she is quite carried away by him."</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "So she is!" answered Winterbourne; | the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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."<|quote|>"I have heard a dozen people speak of it; they say she is quite carried away by him."</|quote|>"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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that | Daisy Miller |
"They are certainly very intimate," | Winterbourne | quite carried away by him."<|quote|>"They are certainly very intimate,"</|quote|>said Winterbourne. Mrs. Costello inspected | it; they say she is quite carried away by him."<|quote|>"They are certainly very intimate,"</|quote|>said Winterbourne. Mrs. Costello inspected the young couple again with | "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."<|quote|>"They are certainly very intimate,"</|quote|>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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything like him; he is better, even, than the courier. | me of thinking of?" "Of that young lady s--Miss Baker 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."<|quote|>"They are certainly very intimate,"</|quote|>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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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 | 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 Baker 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."<|quote|>"They are certainly very intimate,"</|quote|>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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. But he doesn t | 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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."<|quote|>"They are certainly very intimate,"</|quote|>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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 | went off with the brilliant Giovanelli. She sat with him in the adjoining room, in the embrasure of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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."<|quote|>"They are certainly very intimate,"</|quote|>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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "So she is!" answered Winterbourne; and having assured himself that | 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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."<|quote|>"They are certainly very intimate,"</|quote|>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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 | Daisy Miller |
said Winterbourne. Mrs. Costello inspected the young couple again with her optical instrument. | No speaker | "They are certainly very intimate,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne. Mrs. Costello inspected the young couple again with her optical instrument.</|quote|>"He is very handsome. One | quite carried away by him." "They are certainly very intimate,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne. Mrs. Costello inspected the young couple again with her optical instrument.</|quote|>"He is very handsome. One easily sees how it is. | "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,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne. Mrs. Costello inspected the young couple again with her optical instrument.</|quote|>"He is very handsome. One easily sees how it is. She thinks him the most elegant man in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything like him; he is better, even, than the courier. It was the courier probably who introduced him; and if he succeeds in | that young lady s--Miss Baker 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,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne. Mrs. Costello inspected the young couple again with her optical instrument.</|quote|>"He is very handsome. One easily sees how it is. She thinks him the most elegant man in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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, | 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 Baker 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,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne. Mrs. Costello inspected the young couple again with her optical instrument.</|quote|>"He is very handsome. One easily sees how it is. She thinks him the most elegant man in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. But he doesn t move in what are called the first circles. I think it is really | 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne. Mrs. Costello inspected the young couple again with her optical instrument.</|quote|>"He is very handsome. One easily sees how it is. She thinks him the most elegant man in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually | Giovanelli. She sat with him in the adjoining room, in the embrasure of the 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne. Mrs. Costello inspected the young couple again with her optical instrument.</|quote|>"He is very handsome. One easily sees how it is. She thinks him the most elegant man in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "So she is!" answered Winterbourne; and having assured himself that his informant had seen Daisy and her companion but five minutes before, he | 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne. Mrs. Costello inspected the young couple again with her optical instrument.</|quote|>"He is very handsome. One easily sees how it is. She thinks him the most elegant man in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that he dreams of marrying her. That must appear to him too impossible a piece of luck. He has nothing | Daisy Miller |
"He is very handsome. One easily sees how it is. She thinks him the most elegant man in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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." | Mrs. Costello | again with her optical instrument.<|quote|>"He is very handsome. One easily sees how it is. She thinks him the most elegant man in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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."</|quote|>"I don t believe she | Costello inspected the young couple again with her optical instrument.<|quote|>"He is very handsome. One easily sees how it is. She thinks him the most elegant man in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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."</|quote|>"I don t believe she thinks of marrying him," said | 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.<|quote|>"He is very handsome. One easily sees how it is. She thinks him the most elegant man in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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."</|quote|>"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 | 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.<|quote|>"He is very handsome. One easily sees how it is. She thinks him the most elegant man in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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."</|quote|>"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 | 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 Baker 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.<|quote|>"He is very handsome. One easily sees how it is. She thinks him the most elegant man in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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."</|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt | their interviews; and he liked her the more for her innocent-looking indifference and her apparently inexhaustible good humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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.<|quote|>"He is very handsome. One easily sees how it is. She thinks him the most elegant man in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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."</|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 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 been guilty at the moment of the young girl s arrival. She 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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.<|quote|>"He is very handsome. One easily sees how it is. She thinks him the most elegant man in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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."</|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 | 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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.<|quote|>"He is very handsome. One easily sees how it is. She thinks him the most elegant man in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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."</|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that he dreams of marrying her. That must appear to him too impossible a piece of luck. He has nothing but his | Daisy Miller |
"I don t believe she thinks of marrying him," | Winterbourne | in for a magnificent commission."<|quote|>"I don t believe she thinks of marrying him,"</|quote|>said Winterbourne, "and I don | lady, the courier will come in for a magnificent commission."<|quote|>"I don t believe she thinks of marrying him,"</|quote|>said Winterbourne, "and I don t believe he hopes to | the most elegant man in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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."<|quote|>"I don t believe she thinks of marrying him,"</|quote|>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," | 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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."<|quote|>"I don t believe she thinks of marrying him,"</|quote|>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. | "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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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."<|quote|>"I don t believe she thinks of marrying him,"</|quote|>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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that he dreams of marrying her. That must appear | 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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."<|quote|>"I don t believe she thinks of marrying him,"</|quote|>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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 | 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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."<|quote|>"I don t believe she thinks of marrying him,"</|quote|>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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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, | 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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."<|quote|>"I don t believe she thinks of marrying him,"</|quote|>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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 | Daisy Miller |
said Winterbourne, | No speaker | she thinks of marrying him,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne,</|quote|>"and I don t believe | commission." "I don t believe she thinks of marrying him,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne,</|quote|>"and I don t believe he hopes to marry her." | gentleman. She has never seen anything 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,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne,</|quote|>"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. | 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne,</|quote|>"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 | something." "And what is it," he asked, "that you accuse me of thinking of?" "Of that young lady s--Miss Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne,</|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that he dreams of marrying her. That must appear to him | 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne,</|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 | 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 humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne,</|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 | 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne,</|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can | Daisy Miller |
"and I don t believe he hopes to marry her." | Winterbourne | of marrying him," said Winterbourne,<|quote|>"and I don t believe he hopes to marry her."</|quote|>"You may be very sure | don t believe she thinks of marrying him," said Winterbourne,<|quote|>"and I don t believe he hopes to marry her."</|quote|>"You may be very sure she thinks of nothing. She | has never seen anything 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,<|quote|>"and I don t believe he hopes to marry her."</|quote|>"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 | 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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,<|quote|>"and I don t believe he hopes to marry her."</|quote|>"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. But | what is it," he asked, "that you accuse me of thinking of?" "Of that young lady s--Miss Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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,<|quote|>"and I don t believe he hopes to marry her."</|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that he dreams of marrying her. That must appear to him too impossible a piece of luck. He has nothing but | 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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,<|quote|>"and I don t believe he hopes to marry her."</|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 | Winterbourne was standing near the door; he saw it all. Daisy turned very pale and looked at her mother, but Mrs. Miller was humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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,<|quote|>"and I don t believe he hopes to marry her."</|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 she s | 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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,<|quote|>"and I don t believe he hopes to marry her."</|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 | Daisy Miller |
"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," | Mrs. Costello | he hopes to marry her."<|quote|>"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,"</|quote|>added Mrs. Costello, "depend upon | "and I don t believe he hopes to marry her."<|quote|>"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,"</|quote|>added Mrs. Costello, "depend upon it that she may tell | 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."<|quote|>"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,"</|quote|>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. | 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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."<|quote|>"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,"</|quote|>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. 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 evidently immensely charmed with Miss Miller. If she thinks him the finest | thinking of?" "Of that young lady s--Miss Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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."<|quote|>"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,"</|quote|>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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He | he had a pleasant sense that he should never be afraid of Daisy Miller. It must be added that this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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."<|quote|>"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,"</|quote|>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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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, | Daisy turned very pale and looked at her mother, but Mrs. Miller was humbly 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. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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."<|quote|>"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,"</|quote|>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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 | 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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."<|quote|>"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,"</|quote|>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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 | Daisy Miller |
added Mrs. Costello, | No speaker | And at the same time,"<|quote|>added Mrs. Costello,</|quote|>"depend upon it that she | can imagine nothing more vulgar. And at the same time,"<|quote|>added Mrs. Costello,</|quote|>"depend upon it that she may tell you any moment | 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,"<|quote|>added Mrs. Costello,</|quote|>"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 | gentleman. She has never seen anything 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,"<|quote|>added Mrs. Costello,</|quote|>"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. 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 evidently immensely charmed with Miss Miller. If she thinks him the finest gentleman in the | 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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,"<|quote|>added Mrs. Costello,</|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at | 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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,"<|quote|>added Mrs. Costello,</|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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, | striking observance of them. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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,"<|quote|>added Mrs. Costello,</|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 | thinking of something." "And what is it," he asked, "that you accuse me of thinking of?" "Of that young lady s--Miss Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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,"<|quote|>added Mrs. Costello,</|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken | Daisy Miller |
"depend upon it that she may tell you any moment that she is engaged." | Mrs. Costello | same time," added Mrs. Costello,<|quote|>"depend upon it that she may tell you any moment that she is engaged."</|quote|>"I think that is more | more vulgar. And at the same time," added Mrs. Costello,<|quote|>"depend upon it that she may tell you any moment that she is engaged."</|quote|>"I think that is more than Giovanelli expects," said Winterbourne. | 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,<|quote|>"depend upon it that she may tell you any moment that she is engaged."</|quote|>"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. But he doesn t move in | never seen anything 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,<|quote|>"depend upon it that she may tell you any moment that she is engaged."</|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 | "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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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,<|quote|>"depend upon it that she may tell you any moment that she is engaged."</|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up." "He accounts for it | 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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,<|quote|>"depend upon it that she may tell you any moment that she is engaged."</|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an open cab with her accomplice and | them. "Good night, 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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,<|quote|>"depend upon it that she may tell you any moment that she is engaged."</|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 | showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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,<|quote|>"depend upon it that she may tell you any moment that she is engaged."</|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 | Daisy Miller |
"I think that is more than Giovanelli expects," | Winterbourne | moment that she is engaged."<|quote|>"I think that is more than Giovanelli expects,"</|quote|>said Winterbourne. "Who is Giovanelli?" | she may tell you any moment that she is engaged."<|quote|>"I think that is more than Giovanelli expects,"</|quote|>said Winterbourne. "Who is Giovanelli?" "The little Italian. I have | 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."<|quote|>"I think that is more than Giovanelli expects,"</|quote|>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. But he doesn t move in what are called the first circles. I think | 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."<|quote|>"I think that is more than Giovanelli expects,"</|quote|>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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young | 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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."<|quote|>"I think that is more than Giovanelli expects,"</|quote|>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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 | 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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."<|quote|>"I think that is more than Giovanelli expects,"</|quote|>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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an open cab with her accomplice and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome, | 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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."<|quote|>"I think that is more than Giovanelli expects,"</|quote|>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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 | 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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."<|quote|>"I think that is more than Giovanelli expects,"</|quote|>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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an open cab with her accomplice and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome, he could not deny to himself that she was going | Daisy Miller |
said Winterbourne. | No speaker | is more than Giovanelli expects,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne.</|quote|>"Who is Giovanelli?" "The little | is engaged." "I think that is more than Giovanelli expects,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne.</|quote|>"Who is Giovanelli?" "The little Italian. I have asked questions | 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,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne.</|quote|>"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. But he doesn t move in what are called the first circles. I think it is | 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,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne.</|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. | 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne.</|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 | 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne.</|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an open cab with her accomplice and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome, he could | 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne.</|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 | 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne.</|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was enshrined. "Who was her | Daisy Miller |
"Who is Giovanelli?" | Mrs. Costello | than Giovanelli expects," said Winterbourne.<|quote|>"Who is Giovanelli?"</|quote|>"The little Italian. I have | "I think that is more than Giovanelli expects," said Winterbourne.<|quote|>"Who is Giovanelli?"</|quote|>"The little Italian. I have asked questions about him and | 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.<|quote|>"Who is Giovanelli?"</|quote|>"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. But he doesn t move in what are called the first circles. I think it is really not absolutely | 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.<|quote|>"Who is Giovanelli?"</|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she | 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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.<|quote|>"Who is Giovanelli?"</|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 | 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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.<|quote|>"Who is Giovanelli?"</|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an open cab with her accomplice and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome, he could not deny to | 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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.<|quote|>"Who is Giovanelli?"</|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 | 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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.<|quote|>"Who is Giovanelli?"</|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 | Daisy Miller |
"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up." | Winterbourne | said Winterbourne. "Who is Giovanelli?"<|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up."</|quote|>"He accounts for it by | is more than Giovanelli expects," said Winterbourne. "Who is Giovanelli?"<|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up."</|quote|>"He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks | 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?"<|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up."</|quote|>"He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!" 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 | 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?"<|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up."</|quote|>"He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 | 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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?"<|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up."</|quote|>"He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an open cab | 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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?"<|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up."</|quote|>"He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 | 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 brilliant little Roman 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 surprises for him; the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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?"<|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up."</|quote|>"He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 | 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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?"<|quote|>"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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up."</|quote|>"He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 | Daisy Miller |
"He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!" | Mrs. Costello | they have taken him up."<|quote|>"He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!"</|quote|>said Mrs. Costello. "It is | his luck, at the way they have taken him up."<|quote|>"He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!"</|quote|>said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true," Winterbourne pursued, "that | handsome face to offer, and there is a substantial Mr. Miller in that mysterious land of dollars. Giovanelli knows that he hasn t a title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up."<|quote|>"He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!"</|quote|>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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! | personal contact with such splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up."<|quote|>"He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!"</|quote|>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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 | 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up."<|quote|>"He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!"</|quote|>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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an open cab with her accomplice and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome, he could not deny to himself that she | 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up."<|quote|>"He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!"</|quote|>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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was enshrined. "Who was her companion?" asked Winterbourne. "A little Italian with a bouquet in his buttonhole. The girl | showed no displeasure at her tete-a-tete 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up."<|quote|>"He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!"</|quote|>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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 | 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder at his luck, at the way they have taken him up."<|quote|>"He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!"</|quote|>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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was enshrined. "Who was her companion?" asked Winterbourne. "A little Italian with a bouquet | Daisy Miller |
said Mrs. Costello. | No speaker | qui se passe ses fantaisies!"<|quote|>said Mrs. Costello.</|quote|>"It is very true," Winterbourne | Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!"<|quote|>said Mrs. Costello.</|quote|>"It is very true," Winterbourne pursued, "that Daisy and her | he hasn t a title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!"<|quote|>said Mrs. Costello.</|quote|>"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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato | him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!"<|quote|>said Mrs. Costello.</|quote|>"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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 | 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!"<|quote|>said Mrs. Costello.</|quote|>"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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 | 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!"<|quote|>said Mrs. Costello.</|quote|>"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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was enshrined. "Who was her companion?" asked Winterbourne. "A little Italian with a bouquet in his buttonhole. The girl is delightfully pretty, | 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!"<|quote|>said Mrs. Costello.</|quote|>"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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 | 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!"<|quote|>said Mrs. Costello.</|quote|>"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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 | Daisy Miller |
"It is very true," | Winterbourne | ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello.<|quote|>"It is very true,"</|quote|>Winterbourne pursued, "that Daisy and | young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello.<|quote|>"It is very true,"</|quote|>Winterbourne pursued, "that Daisy and her mamma have not yet | a title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello.<|quote|>"It is very true,"</|quote|>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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it," | and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello.<|quote|>"It is very true,"</|quote|>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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 | 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello.<|quote|>"It is very true,"</|quote|>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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 | 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello.<|quote|>"It is very true,"</|quote|>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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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 | 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello.<|quote|>"It is very true,"</|quote|>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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 | 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello.<|quote|>"It is very true,"</|quote|>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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 | Daisy Miller |
Winterbourne pursued, | No speaker | Costello. "It is very true,"<|quote|>Winterbourne pursued,</|quote|>"that Daisy and her mamma | passe ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true,"<|quote|>Winterbourne pursued,</|quote|>"that Daisy and her mamma have not yet risen to | If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true,"<|quote|>Winterbourne pursued,</|quote|>"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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it," said Mrs. | doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true,"<|quote|>Winterbourne pursued,</|quote|>"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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 | learned something. He is apparently a perfectly respectable little man. I believe he is, in a small way, a cavaliere avvocato. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true,"<|quote|>Winterbourne pursued,</|quote|>"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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 | 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true,"<|quote|>Winterbourne pursued,</|quote|>"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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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 | 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true,"<|quote|>Winterbourne pursued,</|quote|>"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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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, | 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true,"<|quote|>Winterbourne pursued,</|quote|>"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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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 | Daisy Miller |
"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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." | Winterbourne | is very true," Winterbourne pursued,<|quote|>"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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception."</|quote|>"Ah! but the avvocato can | fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true," Winterbourne pursued,<|quote|>"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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception."</|quote|>"Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it," said Mrs. | were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true," Winterbourne pursued,<|quote|>"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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception."</|quote|>"Ah! but the avvocato 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 | 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true," Winterbourne pursued,<|quote|>"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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception."</|quote|>"Ah! but the avvocato 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 | He is apparently a perfectly respectable little man. I believe he is, in a small way, a cavaliere avvocato. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true," Winterbourne pursued,<|quote|>"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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception."</|quote|>"Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 | "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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true," Winterbourne pursued,<|quote|>"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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception."</|quote|>"Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 | 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 humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true," Winterbourne pursued,<|quote|>"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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception."</|quote|>"Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 | me of thinking of?" "Of that young lady s--Miss Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" said Mrs. Costello. "It is very true," Winterbourne pursued,<|quote|>"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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception."</|quote|>"Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 | Daisy Miller |
"Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it," | Mrs. Costello | intellectually incapable of that conception."<|quote|>"Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Costello. Of the | I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception."<|quote|>"Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Costello. Of the observation excited by Daisy s | fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception."<|quote|>"Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it,"</|quote|>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 | that he hasn t a title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception."<|quote|>"Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it,"</|quote|>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 | the courier introduced him. He is evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception."<|quote|>"Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it,"</|quote|>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 an 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 | One easily sees how it is. She thinks him the most elegant man in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception."<|quote|>"Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it,"</|quote|>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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 | liked her the more for her innocent-looking indifference and her apparently inexhaustible good humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception."<|quote|>"Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it,"</|quote|>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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 | you accuse me of thinking of?" "Of that young lady s--Miss Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception."<|quote|>"Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it,"</|quote|>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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "So she is!" answered Winterbourne; and having assured himself that his informant had seen Daisy and her companion but five minutes before, | Daisy Miller |
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 an 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 X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said, | No speaker | avvocato can t believe it,"<|quote|>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 an 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 X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said,</|quote|>"And in the same cabinet, | that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it,"<|quote|>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 an 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 X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said,</|quote|>"And in the same cabinet, by the way, I had | 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it,"<|quote|>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 an 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 X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said,</|quote|>"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 | If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it,"<|quote|>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 an 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 X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said,</|quote|>"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 was 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 | 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it,"<|quote|>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 an 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 X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said,</|quote|>"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 was 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." "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 | him the most elegant man in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it,"<|quote|>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 an 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 X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said,</|quote|>"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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward her, | and her apparently inexhaustible good humor. 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 this sentiment was not altogether flattering to Daisy; it was part of his conviction, 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 Baker 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it,"<|quote|>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 an 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 X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said,</|quote|>"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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 | very handsome. One easily sees how it is. She thinks him the most elegant man in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato can t believe it,"<|quote|>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 an 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 X by Velasquez which hangs in one of the cabinets of the palace, and then said,</|quote|>"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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 | Daisy Miller |
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 was enshrined. | No speaker | out to me last week."<|quote|>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 was enshrined.</|quote|>"Who was her companion?" asked | American girl whom you pointed out to me last week."<|quote|>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 was enshrined.</|quote|>"Who was her companion?" asked Winterbourne. "A little Italian with | portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez 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."<|quote|>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 was enshrined.</|quote|>"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." "So she is!" answered Winterbourne; and having assured himself that his | 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 X by Velasquez 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."<|quote|>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 was enshrined.</|quote|>"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." "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. | 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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."<|quote|>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 was enshrined.</|quote|>"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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 | hasn t a title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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."<|quote|>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 was enshrined.</|quote|>"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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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, | 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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."<|quote|>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 was enshrined.</|quote|>"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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 | to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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."<|quote|>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 was enshrined.</|quote|>"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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 | Daisy Miller |
"Who was her companion?" | Winterbourne | great papal portrait was enshrined.<|quote|>"Who was her companion?"</|quote|>asked Winterbourne. "A little Italian | secluded nook in which the great papal portrait was enshrined.<|quote|>"Who was her companion?"</|quote|>asked Winterbourne. "A little Italian with a bouquet in his | 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 was enshrined.<|quote|>"Who was her companion?"</|quote|>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." "So she is!" answered Winterbourne; and having assured himself that his informant had seen Daisy | where he had been walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez 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 was enshrined.<|quote|>"Who was her companion?"</|quote|>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." "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 | 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 X by Velasquez 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 was enshrined.<|quote|>"Who was her companion?"</|quote|>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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 | it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was enshrined.<|quote|>"Who was her companion?"</|quote|>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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 | 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was enshrined.<|quote|>"Who was her companion?"</|quote|>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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 | 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was enshrined.<|quote|>"Who was her companion?"</|quote|>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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 | Daisy Miller |
asked Winterbourne. | No speaker | enshrined. "Who was her companion?"<|quote|>asked Winterbourne.</|quote|>"A little Italian with a | the great papal portrait was enshrined. "Who was her companion?"<|quote|>asked Winterbourne.</|quote|>"A little Italian with a bouquet in his buttonhole. The | 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 was enshrined. "Who was her companion?"<|quote|>asked Winterbourne.</|quote|>"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." "So she is!" answered Winterbourne; and having assured himself that his informant had seen Daisy and her | walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez 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 was enshrined. "Who was her companion?"<|quote|>asked Winterbourne.</|quote|>"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." "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 | 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 X by Velasquez 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 was enshrined. "Who was her companion?"<|quote|>asked Winterbourne.</|quote|>"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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 | face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was enshrined. "Who was her companion?"<|quote|>asked Winterbourne.</|quote|>"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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 | 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was enshrined. "Who was her companion?"<|quote|>asked Winterbourne.</|quote|>"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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 | qui se passe ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was enshrined. "Who was her companion?"<|quote|>asked Winterbourne.</|quote|>"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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 | Daisy Miller |
"So she is!" | Winterbourne | young lady du meilleur monde."<|quote|>"So she is!"</|quote|>answered Winterbourne; and having assured | day that she was a young lady du meilleur monde."<|quote|>"So she is!"</|quote|>answered Winterbourne; and having assured himself that his informant had | the secluded nook in which the great papal portrait was 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."<|quote|>"So she is!"</|quote|>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 | 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 was 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."<|quote|>"So she is!"</|quote|>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 | 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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."<|quote|>"So she is!"</|quote|>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 she s engaged!" "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 | shall I call it?--of culture at which the idea of catching a count or a marchese begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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."<|quote|>"So she is!"</|quote|>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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self | 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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."<|quote|>"So she is!"</|quote|>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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding with him--to say to him, as an intelligent man, that, | Giovanelli knows that he hasn t a title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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."<|quote|>"So she is!"</|quote|>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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 | Daisy Miller |
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. | No speaker | meilleur monde." "So she is!"<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"She s gone out somewhere | was a young lady du meilleur monde." "So she is!"<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"She s gone out somewhere with Mr. Giovanelli," said Mrs. | in which the great papal portrait was 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." "So she is!"<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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, | 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 was 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." "So she is!"<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 she s engaged!" "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 | 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "So she is!"<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 she s engaged!" "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 | it?--of culture at which the idea of catching a count or a marchese begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "So she is!"<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 | 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 in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "So she is!"<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 | 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "So she is!"<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 | Daisy Miller |
"She s gone out somewhere with Mr. Giovanelli," | Mrs. Miller | him in Daisy s absence.<|quote|>"She s gone out somewhere with Mr. Giovanelli,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Miller. "She s | apologized to him for receiving him in Daisy s absence.<|quote|>"She s gone out somewhere with Mr. Giovanelli,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Miller. "She s always going round with Mr. | "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.<|quote|>"She s gone out somewhere with Mr. Giovanelli,"</|quote|>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 she s engaged!" | the secluded nook in which the great papal portrait was 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." "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.<|quote|>"She s gone out somewhere with Mr. Giovanelli,"</|quote|>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 she s engaged!" "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. | 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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.<|quote|>"She s gone out somewhere with Mr. Giovanelli,"</|quote|>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 she s engaged!" "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 | 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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.<|quote|>"She s gone out somewhere with Mr. Giovanelli,"</|quote|>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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 | anything 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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.<|quote|>"She s gone out somewhere with Mr. Giovanelli,"</|quote|>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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said | I call it?--of culture at which the idea of catching a count or a marchese begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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.<|quote|>"She s gone out somewhere with Mr. Giovanelli,"</|quote|>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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 | Daisy Miller |
said Mrs. Miller. | No speaker | out somewhere with Mr. Giovanelli,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Miller.</|quote|>"She s always going round | s absence. "She s gone out somewhere with Mr. Giovanelli,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Miller.</|quote|>"She s always going round with Mr. Giovanelli." "I have | 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,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Miller.</|quote|>"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 she s engaged!" "And what does | portrait was 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." "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,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Miller.</|quote|>"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 she s engaged!" "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 | the Doria Palace, where he had been walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Miller.</|quote|>"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 she s engaged!" "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 | 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Miller.</|quote|>"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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 | 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Miller.</|quote|>"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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. | to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Miller.</|quote|>"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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 | Daisy Miller |
"She s always going round with Mr. Giovanelli." | Mrs. Miller | Mr. Giovanelli," said Mrs. Miller.<|quote|>"She s always going round with Mr. Giovanelli."</|quote|>"I have noticed that they | s gone out somewhere with Mr. Giovanelli," said Mrs. Miller.<|quote|>"She s always going round with Mr. Giovanelli."</|quote|>"I have noticed that they are very intimate," Winterbourne observed. | 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.<|quote|>"She s always going round with Mr. Giovanelli."</|quote|>"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 she s engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?" "Oh, she says she isn t | "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." "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.<|quote|>"She s always going round with Mr. Giovanelli."</|quote|>"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 she s engaged!" "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; | where he had been walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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.<|quote|>"She s always going round with Mr. Giovanelli."</|quote|>"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 she s engaged!" "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 | 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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.<|quote|>"She s always going round with Mr. Giovanelli."</|quote|>"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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, national, and how far they were personal. | 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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.<|quote|>"She s always going round with Mr. Giovanelli."</|quote|>"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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much | 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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.<|quote|>"She s always going round with Mr. Giovanelli."</|quote|>"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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward her, and sometimes it annoyed him to suspect that she did not | Daisy Miller |
"I have noticed that they are very intimate," | Winterbourne | going round with Mr. Giovanelli."<|quote|>"I have noticed that they are very intimate,"</|quote|>Winterbourne observed. "Oh, it seems | Mrs. Miller. "She s always going round with Mr. Giovanelli."<|quote|>"I have noticed that they are very intimate,"</|quote|>Winterbourne observed. "Oh, it seems as if they couldn t | 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."<|quote|>"I have noticed that they are very intimate,"</|quote|>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 she s engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?" "Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!" this | 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." "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."<|quote|>"I have noticed that they are very intimate,"</|quote|>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 she s engaged!" "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 | gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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."<|quote|>"I have noticed that they are very intimate,"</|quote|>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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was | 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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."<|quote|>"I have noticed that they are very intimate,"</|quote|>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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, national, and how far they were personal. From either view of them he had somehow | 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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."<|quote|>"I have noticed that they are very intimate,"</|quote|>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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. | 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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."<|quote|>"I have noticed that they are very intimate,"</|quote|>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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward her, and sometimes it annoyed him to suspect that she did not feel at all. He said to himself that she was too | Daisy Miller |
Winterbourne observed. | No speaker | that they are very intimate,"<|quote|>Winterbourne observed.</|quote|>"Oh, it seems as if | Mr. Giovanelli." "I have noticed that they are very intimate,"<|quote|>Winterbourne observed.</|quote|>"Oh, it seems as if they couldn t live without | 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,"<|quote|>Winterbourne observed.</|quote|>"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 she s engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?" "Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!" this impartial parent | girl is delightfully pretty, but I thought I understood from you the other day that she was a young lady du meilleur monde." "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,"<|quote|>Winterbourne observed.</|quote|>"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 she s engaged!" "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 | the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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,"<|quote|>Winterbourne observed.</|quote|>"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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by | 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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,"<|quote|>Winterbourne observed.</|quote|>"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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, national, and how far they were personal. From either view of them he had somehow missed her, | 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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,"<|quote|>Winterbourne observed.</|quote|>"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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one | 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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,"<|quote|>Winterbourne observed.</|quote|>"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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 | Daisy Miller |
"Oh, it seems as if they couldn t live without each other!" | Mrs. Miller | are very intimate," Winterbourne observed.<|quote|>"Oh, it seems as if they couldn t live without each other!"</|quote|>said Mrs. Miller. "Well, he | "I have noticed that they are very intimate," Winterbourne observed.<|quote|>"Oh, it seems as if they couldn t live without each other!"</|quote|>said Mrs. Miller. "Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. | 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.<|quote|>"Oh, it seems as if they couldn t live without each other!"</|quote|>said Mrs. Miller. "Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!" "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 | delightfully pretty, but I thought I understood from you the other day that she was a young lady du meilleur monde." "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.<|quote|>"Oh, it seems as if they couldn t live without each other!"</|quote|>said Mrs. Miller. "Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!" "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 | portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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.<|quote|>"Oh, it seems as if they couldn t live without each other!"</|quote|>said Mrs. Miller. "Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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.<|quote|>"Oh, it seems as if they couldn t live without each other!"</|quote|>said Mrs. Miller. "Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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. | 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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.<|quote|>"Oh, it seems as if they couldn t live without each other!"</|quote|>said Mrs. Miller. "Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "Of course I care | 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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.<|quote|>"Oh, it seems as if they couldn t live without each other!"</|quote|>said Mrs. Miller. "Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 | Daisy Miller |
said Mrs. Miller. | No speaker | t live without each other!"<|quote|>said Mrs. Miller.</|quote|>"Well, he s a real | seems as if they couldn t live without each other!"<|quote|>said Mrs. Miller.</|quote|>"Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling | 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!"<|quote|>said Mrs. Miller.</|quote|>"Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!" "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 | that she was a young lady du meilleur monde." "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!"<|quote|>said Mrs. Miller.</|quote|>"Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!" "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 | 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 was 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." "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!"<|quote|>said Mrs. Miller.</|quote|>"Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that | 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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!"<|quote|>said Mrs. Miller.</|quote|>"Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 | 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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!"<|quote|>said Mrs. Miller.</|quote|>"Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy | 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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!"<|quote|>said Mrs. Miller.</|quote|>"Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 | Daisy Miller |
"Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!" | Mrs. Miller | each other!" said Mrs. Miller.<|quote|>"Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!"</|quote|>"And what does Daisy say?" | they couldn t live without each other!" said Mrs. Miller.<|quote|>"Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!"</|quote|>"And what does Daisy say?" "Oh, she says she isn | 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.<|quote|>"Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!"</|quote|>"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. | a young lady du meilleur monde." "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.<|quote|>"Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!"</|quote|>"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 | 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 was 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." "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.<|quote|>"Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!"</|quote|>"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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward her, and sometimes it annoyed him to suspect that she did | 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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.<|quote|>"Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!"</|quote|>"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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 | 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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.<|quote|>"Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!"</|quote|>"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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But I don t believe it. They are only pretending to be | 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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.<|quote|>"Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!"</|quote|>"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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 | Daisy Miller |
"And what does Daisy say?" | Winterbourne | telling Daisy she s engaged!"<|quote|>"And what does Daisy say?"</|quote|>"Oh, she says she isn | real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!"<|quote|>"And what does Daisy say?"</|quote|>"Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might | 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 she s engaged!"<|quote|>"And what does Daisy say?"</|quote|>"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?" | 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 she s engaged!"<|quote|>"And what does Daisy say?"</|quote|>"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 | 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!"<|quote|>"And what does Daisy say?"</|quote|>"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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward her, and sometimes it annoyed him to suspect that she did not feel at all. He | 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!"<|quote|>"And what does Daisy say?"</|quote|>"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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 | 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!"<|quote|>"And what does Daisy say?"</|quote|>"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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 | 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!"<|quote|>"And what does Daisy say?"</|quote|>"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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 | Daisy Miller |
"Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!" | Mrs. Miller | "And what does Daisy say?"<|quote|>"Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!"</|quote|>this impartial parent resumed; "she | telling Daisy she s engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?"<|quote|>"Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!"</|quote|>this impartial parent resumed; "she goes on as if she | 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 she s engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?"<|quote|>"Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!"</|quote|>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 | 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 she s engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?"<|quote|>"Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!"</|quote|>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 | 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?"<|quote|>"Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!"</|quote|>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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 | 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?"<|quote|>"Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!"</|quote|>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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 | 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?"<|quote|>"Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!"</|quote|>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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 | but when, coming out upon the great steps of the church, he saw Daisy, who had emerged before him, get into an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?"<|quote|>"Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!"</|quote|>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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, national, and how far they were personal. From either view | Daisy Miller |
this impartial parent resumed; | No speaker | she might as well be!"<|quote|>this impartial parent resumed;</|quote|>"she goes on as if | she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!"<|quote|>this impartial parent resumed;</|quote|>"she goes on as if she was. But I ve | 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 she s engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?" "Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!"<|quote|>this impartial parent resumed;</|quote|>"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 | 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 she s engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?" "Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!"<|quote|>this impartial parent resumed;</|quote|>"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 | 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?" "Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!"<|quote|>this impartial parent resumed;</|quote|>"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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 | 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?" "Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!"<|quote|>this impartial parent resumed;</|quote|>"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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 | 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?" "Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!"<|quote|>this impartial parent resumed;</|quote|>"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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 | 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?" "Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!"<|quote|>this impartial parent resumed;</|quote|>"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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self | Daisy Miller |
"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?" | Mrs. Miller | be!" this impartial parent resumed;<|quote|>"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?"</|quote|>Winterbourne replied that he certainly | But she might as well be!" this impartial parent resumed;<|quote|>"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?"</|quote|>Winterbourne replied that he certainly should; and the state of | 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 she s engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?" "Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!" this impartial parent resumed;<|quote|>"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?"</|quote|>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 | 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 she s engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?" "Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!" this impartial parent resumed;<|quote|>"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?"</|quote|>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, | 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?" "Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!" this impartial parent resumed;<|quote|>"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?"</|quote|>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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 | 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?" "Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!" this impartial parent resumed;<|quote|>"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?"</|quote|>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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 | 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?" "Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!" this impartial parent resumed;<|quote|>"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?"</|quote|>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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 | or a marchese begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "And what does Daisy say?" "Oh, she says she isn t engaged. But she might as well be!" this impartial parent resumed;<|quote|>"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?"</|quote|>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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 | Daisy Miller |
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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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. | No speaker | Miller about it--shouldn t you?"<|quote|>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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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.</|quote|>"Well," said Daisy, "I should | want to write to Mr. Miller about it--shouldn t you?"<|quote|>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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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.</|quote|>"Well," said Daisy, "I should think you would be lonesome!" | "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?"<|quote|>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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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.</|quote|>"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 | 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 she s engaged!" "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?"<|quote|>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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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.</|quote|>"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 | 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." "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 she s engaged!" "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?"<|quote|>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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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.</|quote|>"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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. | 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "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?"<|quote|>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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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.</|quote|>"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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 | 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. 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 evidently 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 splendor, such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady s. And then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting. I rather doubt that 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 title to offer. If he were only a count or a marchese! 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 ses fantaisies!" 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 begins. I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception." "Ah! but the avvocato 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 an 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 X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "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?"<|quote|>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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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.</|quote|>"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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past 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 recurred 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 streetcabs--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 | walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "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?"<|quote|>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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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.</|quote|>"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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 | Daisy Miller |
"Well," | Daisy Miller | aspect of even unwonted brilliancy.<|quote|>"Well,"</|quote|>said Daisy, "I should think | and Giovanelli, too, wore an aspect of even unwonted brilliancy.<|quote|>"Well,"</|quote|>said Daisy, "I should think you would be lonesome!" "Lonesome?" | 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.<|quote|>"Well,"</|quote|>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 | 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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.<|quote|>"Well,"</|quote|>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 | generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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.<|quote|>"Well,"</|quote|>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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because | truth that, though Miss Daisy Miller was a young American lady, her behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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.<|quote|>"Well,"</|quote|>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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 | where he had been walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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.<|quote|>"Well,"</|quote|>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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past 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 recurred 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 streetcabs--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 | 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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.<|quote|>"Well,"</|quote|>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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" she added. He was silent a moment; and then, "Yes, I believe it," he said. "Oh, no, you don t!" she answered. | Daisy Miller |
said Daisy, | No speaker | of even unwonted brilliancy. "Well,"<|quote|>said Daisy,</|quote|>"I should think you would | Giovanelli, too, wore an aspect of even unwonted brilliancy. "Well,"<|quote|>said Daisy,</|quote|>"I should think you would be lonesome!" "Lonesome?" asked Winterbourne. | 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,"<|quote|>said Daisy,</|quote|>"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 | 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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,"<|quote|>said Daisy,</|quote|>"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 | 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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,"<|quote|>said Daisy,</|quote|>"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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think | that, though Miss Daisy Miller was a young American lady, her behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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,"<|quote|>said Daisy,</|quote|>"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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 | he had been walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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,"<|quote|>said Daisy,</|quote|>"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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past 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 recurred 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 streetcabs--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 | 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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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,"<|quote|>said Daisy,</|quote|>"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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 | Daisy Miller |
"I should think you would be lonesome!" | Daisy Miller | unwonted brilliancy. "Well," said Daisy,<|quote|>"I should think you would be lonesome!"</|quote|>"Lonesome?" asked Winterbourne. "You are | wore an aspect of even unwonted brilliancy. "Well," said Daisy,<|quote|>"I should think you would be lonesome!"</|quote|>"Lonesome?" asked Winterbourne. "You are always going round by yourself. | 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,<|quote|>"I should think you would be lonesome!"</|quote|>"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 | 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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,<|quote|>"I should think you would be lonesome!"</|quote|>"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 | 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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,<|quote|>"I should think you would be lonesome!"</|quote|>"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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." | Miss Daisy Miller was a young American lady, her behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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,<|quote|>"I should think you would be lonesome!"</|quote|>"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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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!" | been walking through the beautiful gallery. His friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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,<|quote|>"I should think you would be lonesome!"</|quote|>"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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past 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 recurred 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 streetcabs--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 | 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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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,<|quote|>"I should think you would be lonesome!"</|quote|>"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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 were on their way | Daisy Miller |
"Lonesome?" | Winterbourne | think you would be lonesome!"<|quote|>"Lonesome?"</|quote|>asked Winterbourne. "You are always | "Well," said Daisy, "I should think you would be lonesome!"<|quote|>"Lonesome?"</|quote|>asked Winterbourne. "You are always going round by yourself. Can | 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!"<|quote|>"Lonesome?"</|quote|>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 | him that Rome had never been so lovely as just then. He stood, looking off at the enchanting harmony of line and color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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!"<|quote|>"Lonesome?"</|quote|>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 | 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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!"<|quote|>"Lonesome?"</|quote|>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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And | lady, her behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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!"<|quote|>"Lonesome?"</|quote|>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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 | friend talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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!"<|quote|>"Lonesome?"</|quote|>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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past 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 recurred 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 streetcabs--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 | 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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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!"<|quote|>"Lonesome?"</|quote|>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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 | Daisy Miller |
asked Winterbourne. | No speaker | you would be lonesome!" "Lonesome?"<|quote|>asked Winterbourne.</|quote|>"You are always going round | said Daisy, "I should think you would be lonesome!" "Lonesome?"<|quote|>asked Winterbourne.</|quote|>"You are always going round by yourself. Can t you | 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?"<|quote|>asked Winterbourne.</|quote|>"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 | that Rome had never been so lovely as just then. He stood, looking off at the enchanting harmony of line and color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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?"<|quote|>asked Winterbourne.</|quote|>"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 | 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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?"<|quote|>asked Winterbourne.</|quote|>"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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded | her behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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?"<|quote|>asked Winterbourne.</|quote|>"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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 | talked for a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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?"<|quote|>asked Winterbourne.</|quote|>"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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past 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 recurred 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 streetcabs--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 | 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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?"<|quote|>asked Winterbourne.</|quote|>"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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 | Daisy Miller |
"You are always going round by yourself. Can t you get anyone to walk with you?" | Daisy Miller | be lonesome!" "Lonesome?" asked Winterbourne.<|quote|>"You are always going round by yourself. Can t you get anyone to walk with you?"</|quote|>"I am not so fortunate," | "I should think you would be lonesome!" "Lonesome?" asked Winterbourne.<|quote|>"You are always going round by yourself. Can t you get anyone to walk with you?"</|quote|>"I am not so fortunate," said Winterbourne, "as your companion." | 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.<|quote|>"You are always going round by yourself. Can t you get anyone to walk with you?"</|quote|>"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. | had never been so lovely as just then. He stood, looking off at the enchanting harmony of line and color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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.<|quote|>"You are always going round by yourself. Can t you get anyone to walk with you?"</|quote|>"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 | 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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.<|quote|>"You are always going round by yourself. Can t you get anyone to walk with you?"</|quote|>"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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "Of course I | was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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.<|quote|>"You are always going round by yourself. Can t you get anyone to walk with you?"</|quote|>"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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 | a moment about the superb portrait of Innocent X by Velasquez 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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.<|quote|>"You are always going round by yourself. Can t you get anyone to walk with you?"</|quote|>"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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past 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 recurred 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 streetcabs--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 | anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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.<|quote|>"You are always going round by yourself. Can t you get anyone to walk with you?"</|quote|>"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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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. | Daisy Miller |
"I am not so fortunate," | Winterbourne | anyone to walk with you?"<|quote|>"I am not so fortunate,"</|quote|>said Winterbourne, "as your companion." | yourself. Can t you get anyone to walk with you?"<|quote|>"I am not so fortunate,"</|quote|>said Winterbourne, "as your companion." Giovanelli, from the first, had | 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?"<|quote|>"I am not so fortunate,"</|quote|>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 | of line and color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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?"<|quote|>"I am not so fortunate,"</|quote|>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 understanding with him--to | 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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?"<|quote|>"I am not so fortunate,"</|quote|>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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed | the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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?"<|quote|>"I am not so fortunate,"</|quote|>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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 | 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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?"<|quote|>"I am not so fortunate,"</|quote|>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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past 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 recurred 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 streetcabs--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 | 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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?"<|quote|>"I am not so fortunate,"</|quote|>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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" | Daisy Miller |
said Winterbourne, | No speaker | "I am not so fortunate,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne,</|quote|>"as your companion." Giovanelli, from | anyone to walk with you?" "I am not so fortunate,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne,</|quote|>"as your companion." Giovanelli, from the first, had treated Winterbourne | 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,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne,</|quote|>"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 | remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne,</|quote|>"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 understanding with him--to say to | 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne,</|quote|>"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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But | turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne,</|quote|>"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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 | 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne,</|quote|>"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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past 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 recurred 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 streetcabs--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 | 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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne,</|quote|>"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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" she added. He was silent a moment; and then, "Yes, I believe it," he said. "Oh, no, you don t!" she | Daisy Miller |
"as your companion." | Winterbourne | not so fortunate," said Winterbourne,<|quote|>"as your companion."</|quote|>Giovanelli, from the first, had | walk with you?" "I am not so fortunate," said Winterbourne,<|quote|>"as your companion."</|quote|>Giovanelli, from the first, had treated Winterbourne with distinguished politeness. | 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,<|quote|>"as your companion."</|quote|>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; | the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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,<|quote|>"as your companion."</|quote|>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 understanding with him--to say to him, as an | 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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,<|quote|>"as your companion."</|quote|>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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But I don t | 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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,<|quote|>"as your companion."</|quote|>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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 | 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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,<|quote|>"as your companion."</|quote|>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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past 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 recurred 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 streetcabs--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 | 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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,<|quote|>"as your companion."</|quote|>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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 | Daisy Miller |
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 understanding 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 buttonhole. | No speaker | said Winterbourne, "as your companion."<|quote|>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 understanding 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 buttonhole.</|quote|>"I know why you say | "I am not so fortunate," said Winterbourne, "as your companion."<|quote|>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 understanding 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 buttonhole.</|quote|>"I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. | 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."<|quote|>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 understanding 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 buttonhole.</|quote|>"I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But I don t believe | the softly humid odors, 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."<|quote|>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 understanding 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 buttonhole.</|quote|>"I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 | 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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."<|quote|>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 understanding 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 buttonhole.</|quote|>"I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "Do you mean as Mrs. Walker did the other night?" "Exactly!" said Winterbourne. She looked away at Giovanelli, who was decorating himself | 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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."<|quote|>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 understanding 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 buttonhole.</|quote|>"I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward he went to dine | 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 was 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." "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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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."<|quote|>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 understanding 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 buttonhole.</|quote|>"I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past 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 recurred 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 streetcabs--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 center 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, | 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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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."<|quote|>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 understanding 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 buttonhole.</|quote|>"I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward he went to dine at a beautiful villa on the Caelian Hill, and, on arriving, dismissed his hired | Daisy Miller |
"I know why you say that," | Daisy Miller | carefully arranged in his buttonhole.<|quote|>"I know why you say that,"</|quote|>said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because | of almond blossom, which he carefully arranged in his buttonhole.<|quote|>"I know why you say that,"</|quote|>said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round | 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 buttonhole.<|quote|>"I know why you say that,"</|quote|>said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But I don t believe it. They are only pretending to | 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 understanding 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 buttonhole.<|quote|>"I know why you say that,"</|quote|>said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 | 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 understanding 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 buttonhole.<|quote|>"I know why you say that,"</|quote|>said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 | of instinctive certitude as to how far her eccentricities were generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole.<|quote|>"I know why you say that,"</|quote|>said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward he went to dine at a beautiful villa on the | 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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole.<|quote|>"I know why you say that,"</|quote|>said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past 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 recurred 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 streetcabs--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 center 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, | of innocence, or from her being, essentially, a young person of the reckless class. It must be admitted that holding one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole.<|quote|>"I know why you say that,"</|quote|>said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past the vaguely lighted monuments of the Forum. There | Daisy Miller |
said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. | No speaker | know why you say that,"<|quote|>said Daisy, watching Giovanelli.</|quote|>"Because you think I go | arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that,"<|quote|>said Daisy, watching Giovanelli.</|quote|>"Because you think I go round too much with HIM." | 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that,"<|quote|>said Daisy, watching Giovanelli.</|quote|>"Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But I don t believe it. They are only pretending to be shocked. They don | 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that,"<|quote|>said Daisy, watching Giovanelli.</|quote|>"Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 | 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that,"<|quote|>said Daisy, watching Giovanelli.</|quote|>"Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 | far her eccentricities were generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that,"<|quote|>said Daisy, watching Giovanelli.</|quote|>"Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward he went to dine at a beautiful villa on the Caelian Hill, and, on | 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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that,"<|quote|>said Daisy, watching Giovanelli.</|quote|>"Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past 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 recurred 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 streetcabs--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 center 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, | 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that,"<|quote|>said Daisy, watching Giovanelli.</|quote|>"Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again to her countryman. "Since you have mentioned it," she said, "I AM engaged." * | Daisy Miller |
"Because you think I go round too much with HIM." | Daisy Miller | that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli.<|quote|>"Because you think I go round too much with HIM."</|quote|>And she nodded at her | "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli.<|quote|>"Because you think I go round too much with HIM."</|quote|>And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if | 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli.<|quote|>"Because you think I go round too much with HIM."</|quote|>And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 | 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli.<|quote|>"Because you think I go round too much with HIM."</|quote|>And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 | "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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli.<|quote|>"Because you think I go round too much with HIM."</|quote|>And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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!" | generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli.<|quote|>"Because you think I go round too much with HIM."</|quote|>And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward he went to dine at a beautiful villa on the Caelian Hill, and, on arriving, dismissed his hired vehicle. The evening was charming, and | "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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli.<|quote|>"Because you think I go round too much with HIM."</|quote|>And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past 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 recurred 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 streetcabs--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 center 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 | 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli.<|quote|>"Because you think I go round too much with HIM."</|quote|>And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 | Daisy Miller |
And she nodded at her attendant. | No speaker | round too much with HIM."<|quote|>And she nodded at her attendant.</|quote|>"Every one thinks so--if you | "Because you think I go round too much with HIM."<|quote|>And she nodded at her attendant.</|quote|>"Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. | 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM."<|quote|>And she nodded at her attendant.</|quote|>"Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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." | even seemed to Winterbourne at times that Giovanelli would find a certain mental relief in being able to have a private understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM."<|quote|>And she nodded at her attendant.</|quote|>"Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 | "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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM."<|quote|>And she nodded at her attendant.</|quote|>"Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 | 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM."<|quote|>And she nodded at her attendant.</|quote|>"Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 | 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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM."<|quote|>And she nodded at her attendant.</|quote|>"Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past 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 recurred 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 streetcabs--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 center 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 | 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM."<|quote|>And she nodded at her attendant.</|quote|>"Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 | Daisy Miller |
"Every one thinks so--if you care to know," | Winterbourne | she nodded at her attendant.<|quote|>"Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"</|quote|>said Winterbourne. "Of course I | too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant.<|quote|>"Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"</|quote|>said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed | dollars. On this occasion he strolled away from his companion to pluck a sprig of almond blossom, which he carefully arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant.<|quote|>"Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"</|quote|>said Winterbourne. "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. | that Giovanelli would find a certain mental relief in being able to have a private understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant.<|quote|>"Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"</|quote|>said Winterbourne. "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 | 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant.<|quote|>"Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"</|quote|>said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 | 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant.<|quote|>"Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"</|quote|>said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 | 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 she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant.<|quote|>"Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"</|quote|>said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past 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 recurred 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 streetcabs--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 center 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 behavior, and the | 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant.<|quote|>"Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"</|quote|>said Winterbourne. "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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 were on their way to the gate of the | Daisy Miller |
said Winterbourne. | No speaker | so--if you care to know,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne.</|quote|>"Of course I care to | her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne.</|quote|>"Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But | his companion to pluck a sprig of almond blossom, which he carefully arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne.</|quote|>"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 | in being able to have a private understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne.</|quote|>"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 | 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne.</|quote|>"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 color. "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." | 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne.</|quote|>"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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past the | couldn t live without each other!" said Mrs. Miller. "Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne.</|quote|>"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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past 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 recurred 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 streetcabs--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 center 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 behavior, and the riddle had | 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know,"<|quote|>said Winterbourne.</|quote|>"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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" she added. He was silent a | Daisy Miller |
"Of course I care to know!" | Daisy Miller | care to know," said Winterbourne.<|quote|>"Of course I care to know!"</|quote|>Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But I | "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne.<|quote|>"Of course I care to know!"</|quote|>Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But I don t believe it. They | to pluck a sprig of almond blossom, which he carefully arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne.<|quote|>"Of course I care to know!"</|quote|>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 | able to have a private understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne.<|quote|>"Of course I care to know!"</|quote|>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 | 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne.<|quote|>"Of course I care to know!"</|quote|>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 color. "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 | "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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne.<|quote|>"Of course I care to know!"</|quote|>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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past the vaguely lighted monuments of the Forum. | live without each other!" said Mrs. Miller. "Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne.<|quote|>"Of course I care to know!"</|quote|>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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past 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 recurred 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 streetcabs--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 center 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 behavior, and the riddle had become easy to read. She was | 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne.<|quote|>"Of course I care to know!"</|quote|>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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past the vaguely lighted monuments of the Forum. There was a waning moon in the sky, | Daisy Miller |
Daisy exclaimed seriously. | No speaker | course I care to know!"<|quote|>Daisy exclaimed seriously.</|quote|>"But I don t believe | to know," said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!"<|quote|>Daisy exclaimed seriously.</|quote|>"But I don t believe it. They are only pretending | blossom, which he carefully arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!"<|quote|>Daisy exclaimed seriously.</|quote|>"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. | 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!"<|quote|>Daisy exclaimed seriously.</|quote|>"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 | 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!"<|quote|>Daisy exclaimed seriously.</|quote|>"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 color. "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. | 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!"<|quote|>Daisy exclaimed seriously.</|quote|>"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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past the vaguely lighted monuments of the Forum. There was a | Miller. "Well, he s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!"<|quote|>Daisy exclaimed seriously.</|quote|>"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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past 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 recurred 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 streetcabs--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 center 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 behavior, and the riddle had become easy to read. She was a young lady | 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!"<|quote|>Daisy exclaimed seriously.</|quote|>"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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward he went to dine at a beautiful villa on the Caelian Hill, and, on arriving, dismissed his hired vehicle. The evening was charming, and | Daisy Miller |
"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." | Daisy Miller | to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously.<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"I think you will find | Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously.<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"I think you will find they do care. They will | carefully arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously.<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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 | 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously.<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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 | 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously.<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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 color. "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. | 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously.<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past 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 | s a real gentleman, anyhow. I keep telling Daisy she s engaged!" "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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously.<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past 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 recurred 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 streetcabs--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 center 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 behavior, 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 | 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously.<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward he went to dine at a beautiful villa on the Caelian Hill, and, on | Daisy Miller |
"I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably." | Winterbourne | t go round so much."<|quote|>"I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably."</|quote|>Daisy looked at him a | I do. Besides, I don t go round so much."<|quote|>"I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably."</|quote|>Daisy looked at him a moment. "How disagreeably?" "Haven t | "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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."<|quote|>"I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably."</|quote|>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 | dollars. On this occasion he strolled away from his companion to pluck a sprig of almond blossom, which he carefully arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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."<|quote|>"I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably."</|quote|>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 color. "Do you mean as Mrs. Walker did the other night?" "Exactly!" | 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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."<|quote|>"I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably."</|quote|>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 color. "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 skepticism excited | 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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."<|quote|>"I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably."</|quote|>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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past 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 | 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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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."<|quote|>"I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably."</|quote|>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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past 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 recurred 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 streetcabs--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 center 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 behavior, 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 | 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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."<|quote|>"I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably."</|quote|>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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past 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 recurred to him, as a lover of | Daisy Miller |
Daisy looked at him a moment. | No speaker | They will show it disagreeably."<|quote|>Daisy looked at him a moment.</|quote|>"How disagreeably?" "Haven t you | will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably."<|quote|>Daisy looked at him a moment.</|quote|>"How disagreeably?" "Haven t you noticed anything?" Winterbourne asked. "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."<|quote|>Daisy looked at him a moment.</|quote|>"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 | sprig of almond blossom, which he carefully arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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."<|quote|>Daisy looked at him a moment.</|quote|>"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 color. "Do you mean as Mrs. Walker did the other night?" "Exactly!" said Winterbourne. She looked away at | 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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."<|quote|>Daisy looked at him a moment.</|quote|>"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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he | 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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."<|quote|>Daisy looked at him a moment.</|quote|>"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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past 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 recurred to | 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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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."<|quote|>Daisy looked at him a moment.</|quote|>"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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past 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 recurred 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 streetcabs--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 center 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 behavior, 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 | 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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."<|quote|>Daisy looked at him a moment.</|quote|>"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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past 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 recurred 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 streetcabs--was stationed. Then he passed in, among the cavernous shadows of the great structure, | Daisy Miller |
"How disagreeably?" | Daisy Miller | looked at him a moment.<|quote|>"How disagreeably?"</|quote|>"Haven t you noticed anything?" | will show it disagreeably." Daisy looked at him a moment.<|quote|>"How disagreeably?"</|quote|>"Haven t you noticed anything?" Winterbourne asked. "I have noticed | "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.<|quote|>"How disagreeably?"</|quote|>"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 | carefully arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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.<|quote|>"How disagreeably?"</|quote|>"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 color. "Do you mean as Mrs. Walker did the other night?" "Exactly!" said Winterbourne. She looked away at Giovanelli, who | 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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.<|quote|>"How disagreeably?"</|quote|>"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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that | 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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.<|quote|>"How disagreeably?"</|quote|>"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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past 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 recurred to him, as | 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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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.<|quote|>"How disagreeably?"</|quote|>"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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past 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 recurred 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 streetcabs--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 center 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 behavior, 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 | 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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.<|quote|>"How disagreeably?"</|quote|>"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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past 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 | Daisy Miller |
"Haven t you noticed anything?" | Winterbourne | him a moment. "How disagreeably?"<|quote|>"Haven t you noticed anything?"</|quote|>Winterbourne asked. "I have noticed | it disagreeably." Daisy looked at him a moment. "How disagreeably?"<|quote|>"Haven t you noticed anything?"</|quote|>Winterbourne asked. "I have noticed you. But I noticed you | 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?"<|quote|>"Haven t you noticed anything?"</|quote|>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 | in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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?"<|quote|>"Haven t you noticed anything?"</|quote|>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 color. "Do you mean as Mrs. Walker did the other night?" "Exactly!" said Winterbourne. She looked away at Giovanelli, who was decorating himself with his | 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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?"<|quote|>"Haven t you noticed anything?"</|quote|>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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to | 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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?"<|quote|>"Haven t you noticed anything?"</|quote|>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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past 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 recurred to him, as a lover of the picturesque, | 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 behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward 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 one s self 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 generic, 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 color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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?"<|quote|>"Haven t you noticed anything?"</|quote|>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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past 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 recurred 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 streetcabs--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 center 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 behavior, 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 Miss Daisy Miller. | 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 understanding 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 buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "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?"<|quote|>"Haven t you noticed anything?"</|quote|>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 color. "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 skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again 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!" 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 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 afterward 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 past the vaguely lighted monuments of the Forum. There was a waning moon in the sky, and her radiance was not | Daisy Miller |
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