Daisy Miller: A Study.........................................................................................................................................1

Henry James .............................................................................................................................................1

At the little town of Vevey, in Switzerland, there is a particularly comfortable hotel. There are, indeed, many

hotels, for the entertainment of tourists is the business of the place, which, as many travelers will remember,

is seated upon the edge of a remarkably blue lakea lake that it behooves every tourist to visit. The shore of

the lake presents an unbroken array of establishments of this order, of every category, from the "grand hotel"

of the newest fashion, with a chalkwhite front, a hundred balconies, and a dozen flags flying from its roof,

to the little Swiss pension of an elder day, with its name inscribed in Germanlooking lettering upon a pink

or yellow wall and an awkward summerhouse in the angle of the garden. One of the hotels at Vevey,

however, is famous, even classical, being distinguished from many of its upstart neighbors by an air both of

luxury and of maturity. In this region, in the month of June, American travelers are extremely numerous; it

may be said, indeed, that Vevey assumes at this period some of the characteristics of an American watering

place. There are sights and sounds which evoke a vision, an echo, of Newport and Saratoga. There is a flitting

hither and thither of "stylish" young girls, a rustling of muslin flounces, a rattle of dance music in the

morning hours, a sound of highpitched voices at all times. You receive an impression of these things at the

excellent inn of the "Trois Couronnes" and are transported in fancy to the Ocean House or to Congress Hall.

But at the "Trois Couronnes," it must be added, there are other features that are much at variance with these

suggestions: neat German waiters, who look like secretaries of legation; Russian princesses sitting in the

garden; little Polish boys walking about held by the hand, with their governors; a view of the sunny crest of

I hardly know whether it was the analogies or the differences that were uppermost in the mind of a young

American, who, two or three years ago, sat in the garden of the "Trois Couronnes," looking about him, rather

idly, at some of the graceful objects I have mentioned. It was a beautiful summer morning, and in whatever

fashion the young American looked at things, they must have seemed to him charming. He had come from

Geneva the day before by the little steamer, to see his aunt, who was staying at the hotelGeneva having

been for a long time his place of residence. But his aunt had a headache his aunt had almost always a

headacheand now she was shut up in her room, smelling camphor, so that he was at liberty to wander

about. He was some sevenandtwenty years of age; when his friends spoke of him, they usually said that he

was at Geneva "studying." When his enemies spoke of him, they saidbut, after all, he had no enemies; he

was an extremely amiable fellow, and universally liked. What I should say is, simply, that when certain

persons spoke of him they affirmed that the reason of his spending so much time at Geneva was that he was

extremely devoted to a lady who lived therea foreign ladya person older than himself. Very few

Americansindeed, I think nonehad ever seen this lady, about whom there were some singular stories.

But Winterbourne had an old attachment for the little metropolis of Calvinism; he had been put to school

there as a boy, and he had afterward gone to college therecircumstances which had led to his forming a

great many youthful friendships. Many of these he had kept, and they were a source of great satisfaction to

After knocking at his aunt's door and learning that she was indisposed, he had taken a walk about the town,

and then he had come in to his breakfast. He had now finished his breakfast; but he was drinking a small cup

of coffee, which had been served to him on a little table in the garden by one of the waiters who looked like

an attache. At last he finished his coffee and lit a cigarette. Presently a small boy came walking along the

pathan urchin of nine or ten. The child, who was diminutive for his years, had an aged expression of

countenance, a pale complexion, and sharp little features. He was dressed in knickerbockers, with red

stockings, which displayed his poor little spindleshanks; he also wore a brilliant red cravat. He carried in his

hand a long alpenstock, the sharp point of which he thrust into everything that he approachedthe

flowerbeds, the garden benches, the trains of the ladies' dresses. In front of Winterbourne he paused, looking

"Will you give me a lump of sugar?" he asked in a sharp, hard little voice a voice immature and yet,

Winterbourne glanced at the small table near him, on which his coffee service rested, and saw that several

morsels of sugar remained. "Yes, you may take one," he answered; "but I don't think sugar is good for little

This little boy stepped forward and carefully selected three of the coveted fragments, two of which he buried

in the pocket of his knickerbockers, depositing the other as promptly in another place. He poked his

alpenstock, lancefashion, into Winterbourne's bench and tried to crack the lump of sugar with his teeth.

"Oh, blazes; it's harrd!" he exclaimed, pronouncing the adjective in a peculiar manner.

Winterbourne had immediately perceived that he might have the honor of claiming him as a fellow

"I haven't got any teeth to hurt. They have all come out. I have only got seven teeth. My mother counted them

last night, and one came out right afterward. She said she'd slap me if any more came out. I can't help it. It's

this old Europe. It's the climate that makes them come out. In America they didn't come out. It's these hotels."

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

"She's got to give me some candy, then," rejoined his young interlocutor. "I can't get any candy hereany

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

His companion thanked him for the compliment, and the child, who had now got astride of his alpenstock,

stood looking about him, while he attacked a second lump of sugar. Winterbourne wondered if he himself had

been like this in his infancy, for he had been brought to Europe at about this age.

Winterbourne looked along the path and saw a beautiful young lady advancing. "American girls are the best

"I imagine that is your fault, not hers," said Winterbourne. The young lady meanwhile had drawn near. She

was dressed in white muslin, with a hundred frills and flounces, and knots of palecolored ribbon. She was

bareheaded, but she balanced in her hand a large parasol, with a deep border of embroidery; and she was

strikingly, admirably pretty. "How pretty they are!" thought Winterbourne, straightening himself in his seat,

The young lady paused in front of his bench, near the parapet of the garden, which overlooked the lake. The

little boy had now converted his alpenstock into a vaulting pole, by the aid of which he was springing about

"I'm going up the Alps," replied Randolph. "This is the way!" And he gave another little jump, scattering the

The young lady gave no heed to this announcement, but looked straight at her brother. "Well, I guess you had

It seemed to Winterbourne that he had been in a manner presented. He got up and stepped slowly toward the

young girl, throwing away his cigarette. "This little boy and I have made acquaintance," he said, with great

civility. In Geneva, as he had been perfectly aware, a young man was not at liberty to speak to a young

unmarried lady except under certain rarely occurring conditions; but here at Vevey, what conditions could be

better than these? a pretty American girl coming and standing in front of you in a garden. This pretty

American girl, however, on hearing Winterbourne's observation, simply glanced at him; she then turned her

head and looked over the parapet, at the lake and the opposite mountains. He wondered whether he had gone

too far, but he decided that he must advance farther, rather than retreat. While he was thinking of something

The young girl glanced over the front of her dress and smoothed out a knot or two of ribbon. Then she rested

her eyes upon the prospect again. "Well, I guess you had better leave it somewhere," she said after a moment.

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

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

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

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

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

The young lady inspected her flounces and smoothed her ribbons again; and Winterbourne presently risked

an observation upon the beauty of the view. He was ceasing to be embarrassed, for he had begun to perceive

that she was not in the least embarrassed herself. There had not been the slightest alteration in her charming

complexion; she was evidently neither offended nor flattered. If she looked another way when he spoke to

her, and seemed not particularly to hear him, this was simply her habit, her manner. Yet, as he talked a little

more and pointed out some of the objects of interest in the view, with which she appeared quite unacquainted,

she gradually gave him more of the benefit of her glance; and then he saw that this glance was perfectly

direct and unshrinking. It was not, however, what would have been called an immodest glance, for the young

girl's eyes were singularly honest and fresh. They were wonderfully pretty eyes; and, indeed, Winterbourne

had not seen for a long time anything prettier than his fair countrywoman's various featuresher

complexion, her nose, her ears, her teeth. He had a great relish for feminine beauty; he was addicted to

observing and analyzing it; and as regards this young lady's face he made several observations. It was not at

all insipid, but it was not exactly expressive; and though it was eminently delicate, Winterbourne mentally

accused itvery forgivinglyof a want of finish. He thought it very possible that Master Randolph's sister

was a coquette; he was sure she had a spirit of her own; but in her bright, sweet, superficial little visage there

was no mockery, no irony. Before long it became obvious that she was much disposed toward conversation.

She told him that they were going to Rome for the wintershe and her mother and Randolph. She asked him

if he was a "real American"; she shouldn't have taken him for one; he seemed more like a Germanthis was

said after a little hesitation especially when he spoke. Winterbourne, laughing, answered that he had met

Germans who spoke like Americans, but that he had not, so far as he remembered, met an American who

spoke like a German. Then he asked her if she should not be more comfortable in sitting upon the bench

which he had just quitted. She answered that she liked standing up and walking about; but she presently sat

down. She told him she was from New York State"if you know where that is." Winterbourne learned more

about her by catching hold of her small, slippery brother and making him stand a few minutes by his side.

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

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

But on this point Randolph seemed perfectly indifferent; he continued to supply information with regard to

his own family. "My father's name is Ezra B. Miller," he announced. "My father ain't in Europe; my father's

Winterbourne imagined for a moment that this was the manner in which the child had been taught to intimate

that Mr. Miller had been removed to the sphere of celestial reward. But Randolph immediately added, "My

"Well!" ejaculated Miss Miller, lowering her parasol and looking at the embroidered border. Winterbourne

presently released the child, who departed, dragging his alpenstock along the path. "He doesn't like Europe,"

"Yes; he wants to go right home. He hasn't got any boys here. There is one boy here, but he always goes

"Mother thought of getting him one, to travel round with us. There was a lady told her of a very good teacher;

an American ladyperhaps you know herMrs. Sanders. I think she came from Boston. She told her of this

teacher, and we thought of getting him to travel round with us. But Randolph said he didn't want a teacher

traveling round with us. He said he wouldn't have lessons when he was in the cars. And we ARE in the cars

about half the time. There was an English lady we met in the carsI think her name was Miss Featherstone;

perhaps you know her. She wanted to know why I didn't give Randolph lessonsgive him 'instruction,' she

called it. I guess he could give me more instruction than I could give him. He's very smart."

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

"Or else she's going to find some school. He ought to learn some more. He's only nine. He's going to college."

And in this way Miss Miller continued to converse upon the affairs of her family and upon other topics. She

sat there with her extremely pretty hands, ornamented with very brilliant rings, folded in her lap, and with her

pretty eyes now resting upon those of Winterbourne, now wandering over the garden, the people who passed

by, and the beautiful view. She talked to Winterbourne as if she had known him a long time. He found it very

pleasant. It was many years since he had heard a young girl talk so much. It might have been said of this

unknown young lady, who had come and sat down beside him upon a bench, that she chattered. She was very

quiet; she sat in a charming, tranquil attitude; but her lips and her eyes were constantly moving. She had a

soft, slender, agreeable voice, and her tone was decidedly sociable. She gave Winterbourne a history of her

movements and intentions and those of her mother and brother, in Europe, and enumerated, in particular, the

various hotels at which they had stopped. "That English lady in the cars," she said"Miss Featherstone

asked me if we didn't all live in hotels in America. I told her I had never been in so many hotels in my life as

since I came to Europe. I have never seen so manyit's nothing but hotels." But Miss Miller did not make

this remark with a querulous accent; she appeared to be in the best humor with everything. She declared that

the hotels were very good, when once you got used to their ways, and that Europe was perfectly sweet. She

was not disappointednot a bit. Perhaps it was because she had heard so much about it before. She had ever

so many intimate friends that had been there ever so many times. And then she had had ever so many dresses

and things from Paris. Whenever she put on a Paris dress she felt as if she were in Europe.

"Yes," said Miss Miller without examining this analogy; "it always made me wish I was here. But I needn't

have done that for dresses. I am sure they send all the pretty ones to America; you see the most frightful

things here. The only thing I don't like," she proceeded, "is the society. There isn't any society; or, if there is,

I don't know where it keeps itself. Do you? I suppose there is some society somewhere, but I haven't seen

anything of it. I'm very fond of society, and I have always had a great deal of it. I don't mean only in

Schenectady, but in New York. I used to go to New York every winter. In New York I had lots of society.

Last winter I had seventeen dinners given me; and three of them were by gentlemen," added Daisy Miller. "I

have more friends in New York than in Schenectady more gentleman friends; and more young lady friends

too," she resumed in a moment. She paused again for an instant; she was looking at Winterbourne with all her

prettiness in her lively eyes and in her light, slightly monotonous smile. "I have always had," she said, "a

Poor Winterbourne was amused, perplexed, and decidedly charmed. He had never yet heard a young girl

express herself in just this fashion; never, at least, save in cases where to say such things seemed a kind of

demonstrative evidence of a certain laxity of deportment. And yet was he to accuse Miss Daisy Miller of

actual or potential inconduite, as they said at Geneva? He felt that he had lived at Geneva so long that he had

lost a good deal; he had become dishabituated to the American tone. Never, indeed, since he had grown old

enough to appreciate things, had he encountered a young American girl of so pronounced a type as this.

Certainly she was very charming, but how deucedly sociable! Was she simply a pretty girl from New York

State? Were they all like that, the pretty girls who had a good deal of gentlemen's society? Or was she also a

designing, an audacious, an unscrupulous young person? Winterbourne had lost his instinct in this matter, and

his reason could not help him. Miss Daisy Miller looked extremely innocent. Some people had told him that,

after all, American girls were exceedingly innocent; and others had told him that, after all, they were not. He

was inclined to think Miss Daisy Miller was a flirta pretty American flirt. He had never, as yet, had any

relations with young ladies of this category. He had known, here in Europe, two or three womenpersons

older than Miss Daisy Miller, and provided, for respectability's sake, with husbandswho were great

coquettesdangerous, terrible women, with whom one's relations were liable to take a serious turn. But this

young girl was not a coquette in that sense; she was very unsophisticated; she was only a pretty American

flirt. Winterbourne was almost grateful for having found the formula that applied to Miss Daisy Miller. He

leaned back in his seat; he remarked to himself that she had the most charming nose he had ever seen; he

wondered what were the regular conditions and limitations of one's intercourse with a pretty American flirt. It

"Have you been to that old castle?" asked the young girl, pointing with her parasol to the fargleaming walls

"Yes, formerly, more than once," said Winterbourne. "You too, I suppose, have seen it?"

"No; we haven't been there. I want to go there dreadfully. Of course I mean to go there. I wouldn't go away

"It's a very pretty excursion," said Winterbourne, "and very easy to make. You can drive, you know, or you

"Our courier says they take you right up to the castle," the young girl continued. "We were going last week,

but my mother gave out. She suffers dreadfully from dyspepsia. She said she couldn't go. Randolph wouldn't

go either; he says he doesn't think much of old castles. But I guess we'll go this week, if we can get

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

"He says he don't care much about old castles. He's only nine. He wants to stay at the hotel. Mother's afraid to

leave him alone, and the courier won't stay with him; so we haven't been to many places. But it will be too

bad if we don't go up there." And Miss Miller pointed again at the Chateau de Chillon.

"I should think it might be arranged," said Winterbourne. "Couldn't you get some one to stay for the

Miss Miller looked at him a moment, and then, very placidly, "I wish YOU would stay with him!" she said.

She didn't rise, blushing, as a young girl at Geneva would have done; and yet Winterbourne, conscious that

he had been very bold, thought it possible she was offended. "With your mother," he answered very

But it seemed that both his audacity and his respect were lost upon Miss Daisy Miller. "I guess my mother

won't go, after all," she said. "She don't like to ride round in the afternoon. But did you really mean what you

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

"Eugenio's our courier. He doesn't like to stay with Randolph; he's the most fastidious man I ever saw. But

he's a splendid courier. I guess he'll stay at home with Randolph if mother does, and then we can go to the

Winterbourne reflected for an instant as lucidly as possible "we" could only mean Miss Daisy Miller and

himself. This program seemed almost too agreeable for credence; he felt as if he ought to kiss the young

lady's hand. Possibly he would have done so and quite spoiled the project, but at this moment another person,

presumably Eugenio, appeared. A tall, handsome man, with superb whiskers, wearing a velvet morning coat

and a brilliant watch chain, approached Miss Miller, looking sharply at her companion. "Oh, Eugenio!" said

Eugenio had looked at Winterbourne from head to foot; he now bowed gravely to the young lady. "I have the

Miss Miller slowly rose. "See here, Eugenio!" she said; "I'm going to that old castle, anyway."

"To the Chateau de Chillon, mademoiselle?" the courier inquired. "Mademoiselle has made arrangements?"

Eugenio's tone apparently threw, even to Miss Miller's own apprehension, a slightly ironical light upon the

young girl's situation. She turned to Winterbourne, blushing a littlea very little. "You won't back out?" she

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

The courier stood looking at Winterbourne offensively. The young man, at least, thought his manner of

looking an offense to Miss Miller; it conveyed an imputation that she "picked up" acquaintances. "I shall

have the honor of presenting to you a person who will tell you all about me," he said, smiling and referring to

"Oh, well, we'll go some day," said Miss Miller. And she gave him a smile and turned away. She put up her

parasol and walked back to the inn beside Eugenio. Winterbourne stood looking after her; and as she moved

away, drawing her muslin furbelows over the gravel, said to himself that she had the tournure of a princess.

He had, however, engaged to do more than proved feasible, in promising to present his aunt, Mrs. Costello, to

Miss Daisy Miller. As soon as the former lady had got better of her headache, he waited upon her in her

apartment; and, after the proper inquiries in regard to her health, he asked her if she had observed in the hotel

"And a courier?" said Mrs. Costello. "Oh yes, I have observed them. Seen themheard themand kept out

of their way." Mrs. Costello was a widow with a fortune; a person of much distinction, who frequently

intimated that, if she were not so dreadfully liable to sick headaches, she would probably have left a deeper

impress upon her time. She had a long, pale face, a high nose, and a great deal of very striking white hair,

which she wore in large puffs and rouleaux over the top of her head. She had two sons married in New York

and another who was now in Europe. This young man was amusing himself at Hamburg, and, though he was

on his travels, was rarely perceived to visit any particular city at the moment selected by his mother for her

own appearance there. Her nephew, who had come up to Vevey expressly to see her, was therefore more

attentive than those who, as she said, were nearer to her. He had imbibed at Geneva the idea that one must

always be attentive to one's aunt. Mrs. Costello had not seen him for many years, and she was greatly pleased

with him, manifesting her approbation by initiating him into many of the secrets of that social sway which, as

she gave him to understand, she exerted in the American capital. She admitted that she was very exclusive;

but, if he were acquainted with New York, he would see that one had to be. And her picture of the minutely

hierarchical constitution of the society of that city, which she presented to him in many different lights, was,

He immediately perceived, from her tone, that Miss Daisy Miller's place in the social scale was low. "I am

"They are very common," Mrs. Costello declared. "They are the sort of Americans that one does one's duty

"She has that charming look that they all have," his aunt resumed. "I can't think where they pick it up; and she

dresses in perfectionno, you don't know how well she dresses. I can't think where they get their taste."

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

"Oh, the mother is just as bad! They treat the courier like a familiar friendlike a gentleman. I shouldn't

wonder if he dines with them. Very likely they have never seen a man with such good manners, such fine

clothes, so like a gentleman. He probably corresponds to the young lady's idea of a count. He sits with them

Winterbourne listened with interest to these disclosures; they helped him to make up his mind about Miss

Daisy. Evidently she was rather wild. "Well," he said, "I am not a courier, and yet she was very charming to

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

"She is completely uncultivated," Winterbourne went on. "But she is wonderfully pretty, and, in short, she is

very nice. To prove that I believe it, I am going to take her to the Chateau de Chillon."

"You two are going off there together? I should say it proved just the contrary. How long had you known her,

may I ask, when this interesting project was formed? You haven't been twentyfour hours in the house."

Her nephew was silent for some moments. "You really think, then," he began earnestly, and with a desire for

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

"I haven't the least idea what such young ladies expect a man to do. But I really think that you had better not

meddle with little American girls that are uncultivated, as you call them. You have lived too long out of the

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

Winterbourne continued to curl his mustache meditatively. "You won't let the poor girl know you then?" he

"Then, my dear Frederick," said Mrs. Costello, "I must decline the honor of her acquaintance. I am an old

"But don't they all do these thingsthe young girls in America?" Winterbourne inquired.

Mrs. Costello stared a moment. "I should like to see my granddaughters do them!" she declared grimly.

This seemed to throw some light upon the matter, for Winterbourne remembered to have heard that his pretty

cousins in New York were "tremendous flirts." If, therefore, Miss Daisy Miller exceeded the liberal margin

allowed to these young ladies, it was probable that anything might be expected of her. Winterbourne was

impatient to see her again, and he was vexed with himself that, by instinct, he should not appreciate her

Though he was impatient to see her, he hardly knew what he should say to her about his aunt's refusal to

become acquainted with her; but he discovered, promptly enough, that with Miss Daisy Miller there was no

great need of walking on tiptoe. He found her that evening in the garden, wandering about in the warm

starlight like an indolent sylph, and swinging to and fro the largest fan he had ever beheld. It was ten o'clock.

He had dined with his aunt, had been sitting with her since dinner, and had just taken leave of her till the

morrow. Miss Daisy Miller seemed very glad to see him; she declared it was the longest evening she had ever

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

"No; she doesn't like to go to bed," said the young girl. "She doesn't sleepnot three hours. She says she

doesn't know how she lives. She's dreadfully nervous. I guess she sleeps more than she thinks. She's gone

somewhere after Randolph; she wants to try to get him to go to bed. He doesn't like to go to bed."

"She will talk to him all she can; but he doesn't like her to talk to him," said Miss Daisy, opening her fan.

"She's going to try to get Eugenio to talk to him. But he isn't afraid of Eugenio. Eugenio's a splendid courier,

but he can't make much impression on Randolph! I don't believe he'll go to bed before eleven." It appeared

that Randolph's vigil was in fact triumphantly prolonged, for Winterbourne strolled about with the young girl

for some time without meeting her mother. "I have been looking round for that lady you want to introduce me

to," his companion resumed. "She's your aunt." Then, on Winterbourne's admitting the fact and expressing

some curiosity as to how she had learned it, she said she had heard all about Mrs. Costello from the

chambermaid. She was very quiet and very comme il faut; she wore white puffs; she spoke to no one, and she

never dined at the table d'hote. Every two days she had a headache. "I think that's a lovely description,

headache and all!" said Miss Daisy, chattering along in her thin, gay voice. "I want to know her ever so

much. I know just what YOUR aunt would be; I know I should like her. She would be very exclusive. I like a

lady to be exclusive; I'm dying to be exclusive myself. Well, we ARE exclusive, mother and I. We don't

speak to everyoneor they don't speak to us. I suppose it's about the same thing. Anyway, I shall be ever so

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

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

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

Miss Daisy Miller stopped and stood looking at him. Her prettiness was still visible in the darkness; she was

opening and closing her enormous fan. "She doesn't want to know me!" she said suddenly. "Why don't you

Winterbourne fancied there was a tremor in her voice; he was touched, shocked, mortified by it. "My dear

The young girl walked on a few steps, laughing still. "You needn't be afraid," she repeated. "Why should she

want to know me?" Then she paused again; she was close to the parapet of the garden, and in front of her was

the starlit lake. There was a vague sheen upon its surface, and in the distance were dimly seen mountain

forms. Daisy Miller looked out upon the mysterious prospect and then she gave another little laugh.

"Gracious! she IS exclusive!" she said. Winterbourne wondered whether she was seriously wounded, and for

a moment almost wished that her sense of injury might be such as to make it becoming in him to attempt to

reassure and comfort her. He had a pleasant sense that she would be very approachable for consolatory

purposes. He felt then, for the instant, quite ready to sacrifice his aunt, conversationally; to admit that she was

a proud, rude woman, and to declare that they needn't mind her. But before he had time to commit himself to

this perilous mixture of gallantry and impiety, the young lady, resuming her walk, gave an exclamation in

quite another tone. "Well, here's Mother! I guess she hasn't got Randolph to go to bed." The figure of a lady

appeared at a distance, very indistinct in the darkness, and advancing with a slow and wavering movement.

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

"Well!" cried Miss Daisy Miller with a laugh; "I guess I know my own mother. And when she has got on my

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

"I am afraid your mother doesn't see you," said Winterbourne. "Or perhaps," he added, thinking, with Miss

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

Miss Miller gave him a serious glance. "It isn't for me; it's for youthat is, it's for HER. Well, I don't know

who it's for! But mother doesn't like any of my gentlemen friends. She's right down timid. She always makes

a fuss if I introduce a gentleman. But I DO introduce themalmost always. If I didn't introduce my

gentlemen friends to Mother," the young girl added in her little soft, flat monotone, "I shouldn't think I was

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

"Oh, dear, I can't say all that!" said his companion with a laugh. But by this time they had come up to Mrs.

Miller, who, as they drew near, walked to the parapet of the garden and leaned upon it, looking intently at the

lake and turning her back to them. "Mother!" said the young girl in a tone of decision. Upon this the elder

lady turned round. "Mr. Winterbourne," said Miss Daisy Miller, introducing the young man very frankly and

prettily. "Common," she was, as Mrs. Costello had pronounced her; yet it was a wonder to Winterbourne that,

Her mother was a small, spare, light person, with a wandering eye, a very exiguous nose, and a large

forehead, decorated with a certain amount of thin, much frizzled hair. Like her daughter, Mrs. Miller was

dressed with extreme elegance; she had enormous diamonds in her ears. So far as Winterbourne could

observe, she gave him no greetingshe certainly was not looking at him. Daisy was near her, pulling her

shawl straight. "What are you doing, poking round here?" this young lady inquired, but by no means with that

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

I was telling Mr. Winterbourne," the young girl went on; and to the young man's ear her tone might have

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

"He wouldn't go to bed at all. I guess he sat up all night in the public parlor. He wasn't in bed at twelve

Then, for some moments, there was silence. "Well, Daisy Miller," said the elder lady, presently, "I shouldn't

"Well, he IS tiresome, Mother," said Daisy, quite without the asperity of a retort.

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

To this announcement, very placidly made, Daisy's mamma offered no response. Winterbourne took for

granted that she deeply disapproved of the projected excursion; but he said to himself that she was a simple,

easily managed person, and that a few deferential protestations would take the edge from her displeasure.

"Yes," he began; "your daughter has kindly allowed me the honor of being her guide."

Mrs. Miller's wandering eyes attached themselves, with a sort of appealing air, to Daisy, who, however,

strolled a few steps farther, gently humming to herself. "I presume you will go in the cars," said her mother.

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

"It is a pity you shouldn't go," said Winterbourne, beginning to feel reassured as to her opposition. And yet he

was quite prepared to find that, as a matter of course, she meant to accompany her daughter.

"We've been thinking ever so much about going," she pursued; "but it seems as if we couldn't. Of course

Daisyshe wants to go round. But there's a lady hereI don't know her name she says she shouldn't

think we'd want to go to see castles HERE; she should think we'd want to wait till we got to Italy. It seems as

if there would be so many there," continued Mrs. Miller with an air of increasing confidence. "Of course we

only want to see the principal ones. We visited several in England," she presently added.

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

"Well, if Daisy feels up to it" said Mrs. Miller, in a tone impregnated with a sense of the magnitude of the

"Oh, I think she'll enjoy it!" Winterbourne declared. And he desired more and more to make it a certainty that

he was to have the privilege of a teteatete with the young lady, who was still strolling along in front of

them, softly vocalizing. "You are not disposed, madam," he inquired, "to undertake it yourself?"

Daisy's mother looked at him an instant askance, and then walked forward in silence. Then"I guess she had

better go alone," she said simply. Winterbourne observed to himself that this was a very different type of

maternity from that of the vigilant matrons who massed themselves in the forefront of social intercourse in

the dark old city at the other end of the lake. But his meditations were interrupted by hearing his name very

"I beg you, madam, to let her go," said Winterbourne ardently; for he had never yet enjoyed the sensation of

guiding through the summer starlight a skiff freighted with a fresh and beautiful young girl.

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

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

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

"Well, I want you to take me out in a boat!" Daisy repeated. They had all stopped, and she had turned round

and was looking at Winterbourne. Her face wore a charming smile, her pretty eyes were gleaming, she was

swinging her great fan about. No; it's impossible to be prettier than that, thought Winterbourne.

"There are half a dozen boats moored at that landing place," he said, pointing to certain steps which

descended from the garden to the lake. "If you will do me the honor to accept my arm, we will go and select

Daisy stood there smiling; she threw back her head and gave a little, light laugh. "I like a gentleman to be

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

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

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

"It is eleven o'clock, madam," said a voice, with a foreign accent, out of the neighboring darkness; and

Winterbourne, turning, perceived the florid personage who was in attendance upon the two ladies. He had

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

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

The courier looked for a moment at Winterbournethe latter thought he was smilingand then, solemnly,

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

"Well, I hope it won't keep you awake!" she said very smartly; and, under the escort of the privileged

Winterbourne stood looking after them; he was indeed puzzled. He lingered beside the lake for a quarter of an

hour, turning over the mystery of the young girl's sudden familiarities and caprices. But the only very definite

conclusion he came to was that he should enjoy deucedly "going off" with her somewhere.

Two days afterward he went off with her to the Castle of Chillon. He waited for her in the large hall of the

hotel, where the couriers, the servants, the foreign tourists, were lounging about and staring. It was not the

place he should have chosen, but she had appointed it. She came tripping downstairs, buttoning her long

gloves, squeezing her folded parasol against her pretty figure, dressed in the perfection of a soberly elegant

traveling costume. Winterbourne was a man of imagination and, as our ancestors used to say, sensibility; as

he looked at her dress and, on the great staircase, her little rapid, confiding step, he felt as if there were

something romantic going forward. He could have believed he was going to elope with her. He passed out

with her among all the idle people that were assembled there; they were all looking at her very hard; she had

begun to chatter as soon as she joined him. Winterbourne's preference had been that they should be conveyed

to Chillon in a carriage; but she expressed a lively wish to go in the little steamer; she declared that she had a

passion for steamboats. There was always such a lovely breeze upon the water, and you saw such lots of

people. The sail was not long, but Winterbourne's companion found time to say a great many things. To the

young man himself their little excursion was so much of an escapadean adventure that, even allowing

for her habitual sense of freedom, he had some expectation of seeing her regard it in the same way. But it

must be confessed that, in this particular, he was disappointed. Daisy Miller was extremely animated, she was

in charming spirits; but she was apparently not at all excited; she was not fluttered; she avoided neither his

eyes nor those of anyone else; she blushed neither when she looked at him nor when she felt that people were

looking at her. People continued to look at her a great deal, and Winterbourne took much satisfaction in his

pretty companion's distinguished air. He had been a little afraid that she would talk loud, laugh overmuch,

and even, perhaps, desire to move about the boat a good deal. But he quite forgot his fears; he sat smiling,

with his eyes upon her face, while, without moving from her place, she delivered herself of a great number of

original reflections. It was the most charming garrulity he had ever heard. he had assented to the idea that she

was "common"; but was she so, after all, or was he simply getting used to her commonness? Her

conversation was chiefly of what metaphysicians term the objective cast, but every now and then it took a

"What on EARTH are you so grave about?" she suddenly demanded, fixing her agreeable eyes upon

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

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

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

In the castle, after they had landed, the subjective element decidedly prevailed. Daisy tripped about the

vaulted chambers, rustled her skirts in the corkscrew staircases, flirted back with a pretty little cry and a

shudder from the edge of the oubliettes, and turned a singularly wellshaped ear to everything that

Winterbourne told her about the place. But he saw that she cared very little for feudal antiquities and that the

dusky traditions of Chillon made but a slight impression upon her. They had the good fortune to have been

able to walk about without other companionship than that of the custodian; and Winterbourne arranged with

this functionary that they should not be hurried that they should linger and pause wherever they chose. The

custodian interpreted the bargain generouslyWinterbourne, on his side, had been generousand ended by

leaving them quite to themselves. Miss Miller's observations were not remarkable for logical consistency; for

anything she wanted to say she was sure to find a pretext. She found a great many pretexts in the rugged

embrasures of Chillon for asking Winterbourne sudden questions about himselfhis family, his previous

history, his tastes, his habits, his intentionsand for supplying information upon corresponding points in her

own personality. Of her own tastes, habits, and intentions Miss Miller was prepared to give the most definite,

"Well, I hope you know enough!" she said to her companion, after he had told her the history of the unhappy

Bonivard. "I never saw a man that knew so much!" The history of Bonivard had evidently, as they say, gone

into one ear and out of the other. But Daisy went on to say that she wished Winterbourne would travel with

them and "go round" with them; they might know something, in that case. "Don't you want to come and teach

Randolph?" she asked. Winterbourne said that nothing could possibly please him so much, but that he

unfortunately other occupations. "Other occupations? I don't believe it!" said Miss Daisy. "What do you

mean? You are not in business." The young man admitted that he was not in business; but he had

engagements which, even within a day or two, would force him to go back to Geneva. "Oh, bother!" she said;

"I don't believe it!" and she began to talk about something else. But a few moments later, when he was

pointing out to her the pretty design of an antique fireplace, she broke out irrelevantly, "You don't mean to

"The last!" cried the young girl; "I call it the first. I have half a mind to leave you here and go straight back to

the hotel alone." And for the next ten minutes she did nothing but call him horrid. Poor Winterbourne was

fairly bewildered; no young lady had as yet done him the honor to be so agitated by the announcement of his

movements. His companion, after this, ceased to pay any attention to the curiosities of Chillon or the beauties

of the lake; she opened fire upon the mysterious charmer in Geneva whom she appeared to have instantly

taken it for granted that he was hurrying back to see. How did Miss Daisy Miller know that there was a

charmer in Geneva? Winterbourne, who denied the existence of such a person, was quite unable to discover,

and he was divided between amazement at the rapidity of her induction and amusement at the frankness of

her persiflage. She seemed to him, in all this, an extraordinary mixture of innocence and crudity. "Does she

never allow you more than three days at a time?" asked Daisy ironically. "Doesn't she give you a vacation in

summer? There's no one so hard worked but they can get leave to go off somewhere at this season. I suppose,

if you stay another day, she'll come after you in the boat. Do wait over till Friday, and I will go down to the

landing to see her arrive!" Winterbourne began to think he had been wrong to feel disappointed in the temper

in which the young lady had embarked. If he had missed the personal accent, the personal accent was now

making its appearance. It sounded very distinctly, at last, in her telling him she would stop "teasing" him if he

"That's not a difficult promise to make," said Winterbourne. "My aunt has taken an apartment in Rome for the

"I don't want you to come for your aunt," said Daisy; "I want you to come for me." And this was the only

allusion that the young man was ever to hear her make to his invidious kinswoman. He declared that, at any

rate, he would certainly come. After this Daisy stopped teasing. Winterbourne took a carriage, and they drove

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

Mrs. Costello sniffed a little at her smelling bottle. "And that," she exclaimed, "is the young person whom

Winterbourne, who had returned to Geneva the day after his excursion to Chillon, went to Rome toward the

end of January. His aunt had been established there for several weeks, and he had received a couple of letters

from her. "Those people you were so devoted to last summer at Vevey have turned up here, courier and all,"

she wrote. "They seem to have made several acquaintances, but the courier continues to be the most intime.

The young lady, however, is also very intimate with some thirdrate Italians, with whom she rackets about in

a way that makes much talk. Bring me that pretty novel of Cherbuliez'sPaule Mere and don't come later

In the natural course of events, Winterbourne, on arriving in Rome, would presently have ascertained Mrs.

Miller's address at the American banker's and have gone to pay his compliments to Miss Daisy. "After what

happened at Vevey, I think I may certainly call upon them," he said to Mrs. Costello.

"If, after what happensat Vevey and everywhereyou desire to keep up the acquaintance, you are very

"The girl goes about alone with her foreigners. As to what happens further, you must apply elsewhere for

information. She has picked up half a dozen of the regular Roman fortune hunters, and she takes them about

to people's houses. When she comes to a party she brings with her a gentleman with a good deal of manner

Winterbourne meditated a moment. "They are very ignorant very innocent only. Depend upon it they are

"They are hopelessly vulgar," said Mrs. Costello. "Whether or no being hopelessly vulgar is being 'bad' is a

question for the metaphysicians. They are bad enough to dislike, at any rate; and for this short life that is

The news that Daisy Miller was surrounded by half a dozen wonderful mustaches checked Winterbourne's

impulse to go straightway to see her. He had, perhaps, not definitely flattered himself that he had made an

ineffaceable impression upon her heart, but he was annoyed at hearing of a state of affairs so little in harmony

with an image that had lately flitted in and out of his own meditations; the image of a very pretty girl looking

out of an old Roman window and asking herself urgently when Mr. Winterbourne would arrive. If, however,

he determined to wait a little before reminding Miss Miller of his claims to her consideration, he went very

soon to call upon two or three other friends. One of these friends was an American lady who had spent

several winters at Geneva, where she had placed her children at school. She was a very accomplished woman,

and she lived in the Via Gregoriana. Winterbourne found her in a little crimson drawing room on a third

floor; the room was filled with southern sunshine. He had not been there ten minutes when the servant came

in, announcing "Madame Mila!" This announcement was presently followed by the entrance of little

Randolph Miller, who stopped in the middle of the room and stood staring at Winterbourne. An instant later

his pretty sister crossed the threshold; and then, after a considerable interval, Mrs. Miller slowly advanced.

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

Daisy was exchanging greetings very prettily with her hostess, but when she heard Winterbourne's voice she

Winterbourne turned with a protesting smile to her mother, but this lady evaded his glance, and, seating

herself, fixed her eyes upon her son. "We've got a bigger place than this," said Randolph. "It's all gold on the

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

"I told YOU!" Randolph exclaimed. "I tell YOU, sir!" he added jocosely, giving Winterbourne a thump on

Daisy had entered upon a lively conversation with her hostess; Winterbourne judged it becoming to address a

few words to her mother. "I hope you have been well since we parted at Vevey," he said.

Mrs. Miller now certainly looked at himat his chin. "Not very well, sir," she answered.

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

This announcement, instead of embarrassing Mrs. Miller, seemed to relieve her. "I suffer from the liver," she

said. "I think it's this climate; it's less bracing than Schenectady, especially in the winter season. I don't know

whether you know we reside at Schenectady. I was saying to Daisy that I certainly hadn't found any one like

Dr. Davis, and I didn't believe I should. Oh, at Schenectady he stands first; they think everything of him. He

has so much to do, and yet there was nothing he wouldn't do for me. He said he never saw anything like my

dyspepsia, but he was bound to cure it. I'm sure there was nothing he wouldn't try. He was just going to try

something new when we came off. Mr. Miller wanted Daisy to see Europe for herself. But I wrote to Mr.

Miller that it seems as if I couldn't get on without Dr. Davis. At Schenectady he stands at the very top; and

Winterbourne had a good deal of pathological gossip with Dr. Davis's patient, during which Daisy chattered

unremittingly to her own companion. The young man asked Mrs. Miller how she was pleased with Rome.

"Well, I must say I am disappointed," she answered. "We had heard so much about it; I suppose we had heard

too much. But we couldn't help that. We had been led to expect something different."

"You are not much like an infant," said his mother. "But we have seen places," she resumed, "that I should

put a long way before Rome." And in reply to Winterbourne's interrogation, "There's Zurich," she concluded,

"He means the ship," his mother explained. "We crossed in that ship. Randolph had a good time on the City

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

"Well, we've got to turn the right way some time," said Mrs. Miller with a little laugh. Winterbourne

expressed the hope that her daughter at least found some gratification in Rome, and she declared that Daisy

was quite carried away. "It's on account of the societythe society's splendid. She goes round everywhere;

she has made a great number of acquaintances. Of course she goes round more than I do. I must say they have

been very sociable; they have taken her right in. And then she knows a great many gentlemen. Oh, she thinks

there's nothing like Rome. Of course, it's a great deal pleasanter for a young lady if she knows plenty of

By this time Daisy had turned her attention again to Winterbourne. "I've been telling Mrs. Walker how mean

"And what is the evidence you have offered?" asked Winterbourne, rather annoyed at Miss Miller's want of

appreciation of the zeal of an admirer who on his way down to Rome had stopped neither at Bologna nor at

Florence, simply because of a certain sentimental impatience. He remembered that a cynical compatriot had

once told him that American womenthe pretty ones, and this gave a largeness to the axiom were at once

the most exacting in the world and the least endowed with a sense of indebtedness.

"Why, you were awfully mean at Vevey," said Daisy. "You wouldn't do anything. You wouldn't stay there

"My dearest young lady," cried Winterbourne, with eloquence, "have I come all the way to Rome to

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's an intimate friend of mineMr. Giovanelli," said Daisy without a tremor in her clear little voice or a

Mrs. Walker was silent a moment; she gave a rapid glance at Winterbourne. "I shall be glad to see Mr.

"He's an Italian," Daisy pursued with the prettiest serenity. "He's a great friend of mine; he's the handsomest

man in the world except Mr. Winterbourne! He knows plenty of Italians, but he wants to know some

Americans. He thinks ever so much of Americans. He's tremendously clever. He's perfectly lovely!"

It was settled that this brilliant personage should be brought to Mrs. Walker's party, and then Mrs. Miller

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

"Alone, my dearat this hour?" Mrs. Walker asked. The afternoon was drawing to a closeit was the hour

for the throng of carriages and of contemplative pedestrians. "I don't think it's safe, my dear," said Mrs.

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

The company had risen to its feet; Daisy, still showing her pretty teeth, bent over and kissed her hostess.

"Mrs. Walker, you are too perfect," she said. "I'm not going alone; I am going to meet a friend."

Winterbourne was watching the young girl; at this question his attention quickened. She stood there, smiling

and smoothing her bonnet ribbons; she glanced at Winterbourne. Then, while she glanced and smiled, she

answered, without a shade of hesitation, "Mr. Giovanellithe beautiful Giovanelli."

"My dear young friend," said Mrs. Walker, taking her hand pleadingly, "don't walk off to the Pincio at this

"Gracious me!" Daisy exclaimed, "I don't to do anything improper. There's an easy way to settle it." She

continued to glance at Winterbourne. "The Pincio is only a hundred yards distant; and if Mr. Winterbourne

Winterbourne's politeness hastened to affirm itself, and the young girl gave him gracious leave to accompany

her. They passed downstairs before her mother, and at the door Winterbourne perceived Mrs. Miller's

carriage drawn up, with the ornamental courier whose acquaintance he had made at Vevey seated within.

"Goodbye, Eugenio!" cried Daisy; "I'm going to take a walk." The distance from the Via Gregoriana to the

beautiful garden at the other end of the Pincian Hill is, in fact, rapidly traversed. As the day was splendid,

however, and the concourse of vehicles, walkers, and loungers numerous, the young Americans found their

progress much delayed. This fact was highly agreeable to Winterbourne, in spite of his consciousness of his

singular situation. The slowmoving, idly gazing Roman crowd bestowed much attention upon the extremely

pretty young foreign lady who was passing through it upon his arm; and he wondered what on earth had been

in Daisy's mind when she proposed to expose herself, unattended, to its appreciation. His own mission, to her

sense, apparently, was to consign her to the hands of Mr. Giovanelli; but Winterbourne, at once annoyed and

"I have had the honor of telling you that I have only just stepped out of the train."

"You must have stayed in the train a good while after it stopped!" cried the young girl with her little laugh. "I

"I know where you knew her. You knew her at Geneva. She told me so. Well, you knew me at Vevey. That's

just as good. So you ought to have come." She asked him no other question than this; she began to prattle

about her own affairs. "We've got splendid rooms at the hotel; Eugenio says they're the best rooms in Rome.

We are going to stay all winter, if we don't die of the fever; and I guess we'll stay then. It's a great deal nicer

than I thought; I thought it would be fearfully quiet; I was sure it would be awfully poky. I was sure we

should be going round all the time with one of those dreadful old men that explain about the pictures and

things. But we only had about a week of that, and now I'm enjoying myself. I know ever so many people, and

they are all so charming. The society's extremely select. There are all kindsEnglish, and Germans, and

Italians. I think I like the English best. I like their style of conversation. But there are some lovely Americans.

I never saw anything so hospitable. There's something or other every day. There's not much dancing; but I

must say I never thought dancing was everything. I was always fond of conversation. I guess I shall have

plenty at Mrs. Walker's, her rooms are so small." When they had passed the gate of the Pincian Gardens, Miss

Miller began to wonder where Mr. Giovanelli might be. "We had better go straight to that place in front," she

She burst into her little laugh. "Are you afraid you'll get lost or run over? But there's Giovanelli, leaning

against that tree. He's staring at the women in the carriages: did you ever see anything so cool?"

Winterbourne perceived at some distance a little man standing with folded arms nursing his cane. He had a

handsome face, an artfully poised hat, a glass in one eye, and a nosegay in his buttonhole. Winterbourne

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

Daisy stopped and looked at him, without a sign of troubled consciousness in her face, with nothing but the

presence of her charming eyes and her happy dimples. "Well, she's a cool one!" thought the young man.

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

The young girl looked at him more gravely, but with eyes that were prettier than ever. "I have never allowed

"I think you have made a mistake," said Winterbourne. "You should sometimes listen to a gentlemanthe

Daisy began to laugh again. "I do nothing but listen to gentlemen!" she exclaimed. "Tell me if Mr. Giovanelli

The gentleman with the nosegay in his bosom had now perceived our two friends, and was approaching the

young girl with obsequious rapidity. He bowed to Winterbourne as well as to the latter's companion; he had a

brilliant smile, an intelligent eye; Winterbourne thought him not a badlooking fellow. But he nevertheless

Daisy evidently had a natural talent for performing introductions; she mentioned the name of each of her

companions to the other. She strolled alone with one of them on each side of her; Mr. Giovanelli, who spoke

English very cleverlyWinterbourne afterward learned that he had practiced the idiom upon a great many

American heiresses addressed her a great deal of very polite nonsense; he was extremely urbane, and the

young American, who said nothing, reflected upon that profundity of Italian cleverness which enables people

to appear more gracious in proportion as they are more acutely disappointed. Giovanelli, of course, had

counted upon something more intimate; he had not bargained for a party of three. But he kept his temper in a

manner which suggested farstretching intentions. Winterbourne flattered himself that he had taken his

measure. "He is not a gentleman," said the young American; "he is only a clever imitation of one. He is a

music master, or a pennyaliner, or a thirdrate artist. D__n his good looks!" Mr. Giovanelli had certainly a

very pretty face; but Winterbourne felt a superior indignation at his own lovely fellow countrywoman's not

knowing the difference between a spurious gentleman and a real one. Giovanelli chattered and jested and

made himself wonderfully agreeable. It was true that, if he was an imitation, the imitation was brilliant.

"Nevertheless," Winterbourne said to himself, "a nice girl ought to know!" And then he came back to the

question whether this was, in fact, a nice girl. Would a nice girl, even allowing for her being a little American

flirt, make a rendezvous with a presumably lowlived foreigner? The rendezvous in this case, indeed, had

been in broad daylight and in the most crowded corner of Rome, but was it not impossible to regard the

choice of these circumstances as a proof of extreme cynicism? Singular though it may seem, Winterbourne

was vexed that the young girl, in joining her amoroso, should not appear more impatient of his own company,

and he was vexed because of his inclination. It was impossible to regard her as a perfectly wellconducted

young lady; she was wanting in a certain indispensable delicacy. It would therefore simplify matters greatly

to be able to treat her as the object of one of those sentiments which are called by romancers "lawless

passions." That she should seem to wish to get rid of him would help him to think more lightly of her, and to

be able to think more lightly of her would make her much less perplexing. But Daisy, on this occasion,

continued to present herself as an inscrutable combination of audacity and innocence.

She had been walking some quarter of an hour, attended by her two cavaliers, and responding in a tone of

very childish gaiety, as it seemed to Winterbourne, to the pretty speeches of Mr. Giovanelli, when a carriage

that had detached itself from the revolving train drew up beside the path. At the same moment Winterbourne

perceived that his friend Mrs. Walkerthe lady whose house he had lately left was seated in the vehicle

and was beckoning to him. Leaving Miss Miller's side, he hastened to obey her summons. Mrs. Walker was

flushed; she wore an excited air. "It is really too dreadful," she said. "That girl must not do this sort of thing.

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

"She's very crazy!" cried Mrs. Walker. "Did you ever see anything so imbecile as her mother? After you had

all left me just now, I could not sit still for thinking of it. It seemed too pitiful, not even to attempt to save her.

I ordered the carriage and put on my bonnet, and came here as quickly as possible. Thank Heaven I have

"To ask her to get in, to drive her about here for half an hour, so that the world may see she is not running

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

Mrs. Walker tried. The young man went in pursuit of Miss Miller, who had simply nodded and smiled at his

interlocutor in the carriage and had gone her way with her companion. Daisy, on learning that Mrs. Walker

wished to speak to her, retraced her steps with a perfect good grace and with Mr. Giovanelli at her side. She

declared that she was delighted to have a chance to present this gentleman to Mrs. Walker. She immediately

achieved the introduction, and declared that she had never in her life seen anything so lovely as Mrs. Walker's

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

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

"That would be charming, but it's so enchanting just as I am!" and Daisy gave a brilliant glance at the

"It may be enchanting, dear child, but it is not the custom here," urged Mrs. Walker, leaning forward in her

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

"With my mother dear!" exclaimed the young girl. Winterbourne saw that she scented interference. "My

mother never walked ten steps in her life. And then, you know," she added with a laugh, "I am more than five

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

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

Daisy turned her quickened glance again from one of the gentlemen beside her to the other. Mr. Giovanelli

was bowing to and fro, rubbing down his gloves and laughing very agreeably; Winterbourne thought it a most

unpleasant scene. "I don't think I want to know what you mean," said Daisy presently. "I don't think I should

Winterbourne wished that Mrs. Walker would tuck in her carriage rug and drive away, but this lady did not

enjoy being defied, as she afterward told him. "Should you prefer being thought a very reckless girl?" she

"Gracious!" exclaimed Daisy. She looked again at Mr. Giovanelli, then she turned to Winterbourne. There

was a little pink flush in her cheek; she was tremendously pretty. "Does Mr. Winterbourne think," she asked

slowly, smiling, throwing back her head, and glancing at him from head to foot, "that, to save my reputation,

Winterbourne colored; for an instant he hesitated greatly. It seemed so strange to hear her speak that way of

her "reputation." But he himself, in fact, must speak in accordance with gallantry. The finest gallantry, here,

was simply to tell her the truth; and the truth, for Winterbourne, as the few indications I have been able to

give have made him known to the reader, was that Daisy Miller should take Mrs. Walker's advice. He looked

at her exquisite prettiness, and then he said, very gently, "I think you should get into the carriage."

Daisy gave a violent laugh. "I never heard anything so stiff! If this is improper, Mrs. Walker," she pursued,

"then I am all improper, and you must give me up. Goodbye; I hope you'll have a lovely ride!" and, with Mr.

Mrs. Walker sat looking after her, and there were tears in Mrs. Walker's eyes. "Get in here, sir," she said to

Winterbourne, indicating the place beside her. The young man answered that he felt bound to accompany

Miss Miller, whereupon Mrs. Walker declared that if he refused her this favor she would never speak to him

again. She was evidently in earnest. Winterbourne overtook Daisy and her companion, and, offering the

young girl his hand, told her that Mrs. Walker had made an imperious claim upon his society. He expected

that in answer she would say something rather free, something to commit herself still further to that

"recklessness" from which Mrs. Walker had so charitably endeavored to dissuade her. But she only shook his

hand, hardly looking at him, while Mr. Giovanelli bade him farewell with a too emphatic flourish of the hat.

Winterbourne was not in the best possible humor as he took his seat in Mrs. Walker's victoria. "That was not

clever of you," he said candidly, while the vehicle mingled again with the throng of carriages.

"In such a case," his companion answered, "I don't wish to be clever; I wish to be EARNEST!"

"It has happened very well," said Mrs. Walker. "If she is so perfectly determined to compromise herself, the

"Everything that is not done here. Flirting with any man she could pick up; sitting in corners with mysterious

Italians; dancing all the evening with the same partners; receiving visits at eleven o'clock at night. Her mother

"He must be edified by what he sees. I'm told that at their hotel everyone is talking about her, and that a smile

goes round among all the servants when a gentleman comes and asks for Miss Miller."

"The servants be hanged!" said Winterbourne angrily. "The poor girl's only fault," he presently added, "is that

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

Winterbourne was silent for some moments; then he said, "I suspect, Mrs. Walker, that you and I have lived

too long at Geneva!" And he added a request that she should inform him with what particular design she had

"I wished to beg you to cease your relations with Miss Miller not to flirt with herto give her no further

"There certainly will be in the way she takes them. But I have said what I had on my conscience," Mrs.

Walker pursued. "If you wish to rejoin the young lady I will put you down. Here, by the way, you have a

The carriage was traversing that part of the Pincian Garden that overhangs the wall of Rome and overlooks

the beautiful Villa Borghese. It is bordered by a large parapet, near which there are several seats. One of the

seats at a distance was occupied by a gentleman and a lady, toward whom Mrs. Walker gave a toss of her

head. At the same moment these persons rose and walked toward the parapet. Winterbourne had asked the

coachman to stop; he now descended from the carriage. His companion looked at him a moment in silence;

then, while he raised his hat, she drove majestically away. Winterbourne stood there; he had turned his eyes

toward Daisy and her cavalier. They evidently saw no one; they were too deeply occupied with each other.

When they reached the low garden wall, they stood a moment looking off at the great flattopped pine

clusters of the Villa Borghese; then Giovanelli seated himself, familiarly, upon the broad ledge of the wall.

The western sun in the opposite sky sent out a brilliant shaft through a couple of cloud bars, whereupon

Daisy's companion took her parasol out of her hands and opened it. She came a little nearer, and he held the

parasol over her; then, still holding it, he let it rest upon her shoulder, so that both of their heads were hidden

from Winterbourne. This young man lingered a moment, then he began to walk. But he walkednot toward

He flattered himself on the following day that there was no smiling among the servants when he, at least,

asked for Mrs. Miller at her hotel. This lady and her daughter, however, were not at home; and on the next

day after, repeating his visit, Winterbourne again had the misfortune not to find them. Mrs. Walker's party

took place on the evening of the third day, and, in spite of the frigidity of his last interview with the hostess,

Winterbourne was among the guests. Mrs. Walker was one of those American ladies who, while residing

abroad, make a point, in their own phrase, of studying European society, and she had on this occasion

collected several specimens of her diversely born fellow mortals to serve, as it were, as textbooks. When

Winterbourne arrived, Daisy Miller was not there, but in a few moments he saw her mother come in alone,

very shyly and ruefully. Mrs. Miller's hair above her exposedlooking temples was more frizzled than ever.

"You see, I've come all alone," said poor Mrs. Miller. "I'm so frightened; I don't know what to do. It's the first

time I've ever been to a party alone, especially in this country. I wanted to bring Randolph or Eugenio, or

someone, but Daisy just pushed me off by myself. I ain't used to going round alone."

"And does not your daughter intend to favor us with her society?" demanded Mrs. Walker impressively.

"Well, Daisy's all dressed," said Mrs. Miller with that accent of the dispassionate, if not of the philosophic,

historian with which she always recorded the current incidents of her daughter's career. "She got dressed on

purpose before dinner. But she's got a friend of hers there; that gentlemanthe Italianthat she wanted to

bring. They've got going at the piano; it seems as if they couldn't leave off. Mr. Giovanelli sings splendidly.

"Well, I told her that there was no use in her getting dressed before dinner if she was going to wait three

hours," responded Daisy's mamma. "I didn't see the use of her putting on such a dress as that to sit round with

"This is most horrible!" said Mrs. Walker, turning away and addressing herself to Winterbourne. "Elle

s'affiche. It's her revenge for my having ventured to remonstrate with her. When she comes, I shall not speak

Daisy came after eleven o'clock; but she was not, on such an occasion, a young lady to wait to be spoken to.

She rustled forward in radiant loveliness, smiling and chattering, carrying a large bouquet, and attended by

Mr. Giovanelli. Everyone stopped talking and turned and looked at her. She came straight to Mrs. Walker.

"I'm afraid you thought I never was coming, so I sent mother off to tell you. I wanted to make Mr. Giovanelli

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.

"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

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

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

"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

"He should not have talked about it at all," said Winterbourne; "he would never have proposed to a young

"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

"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 youthank you very much; you are the last man I should think of flirting with. As I have had the

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

"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

"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

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

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

"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

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 teteatete 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 innocentlooking 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 afraidliterally afraidof 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

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:

"Of that young lady'sMiss Baker's, Miss Chandler'swhat's her name? Miss Miller's intrigue with that

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

"No," rejoined Winterbourne, with something of that pensiveness to which his aunt had alluded. "I don't

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

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

"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

"He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!"

"It is very true," Winterbourne pursued, "that Daisy and her mamma have not yet risen to that stage ofwhat

shall I call it?of culture at which the idea of catching a count or a marchese begins. I believe that they are

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 hernot 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 girlprettier than everwas seated

with a companion in the secluded nook in which the great papal portrait was enshrined.

"A little Italian with a bouquet in his buttonhole. The girl is delightfully pretty, but I thought I understood

"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;

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

"Oh, it seems as if they couldn't live without each other!" said Mrs. Miller. "Well, he's a real gentleman,

"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

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

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 finespun 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.

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

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

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 himto 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

delusivehopes of matrimony and dollars. On this occasion he strolled away from his companion to pluck a

"I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with

"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 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 was looking at him intently; she began to color. "Do you mean as Mrs. Walker did the other night?"

She looked away at Giovanelli, who was decorating himself with his almond blossom. Then looking back at

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

"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.

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 carriageone of the little

Roman streetcabswas 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. Onehalf

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

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

"Let us hope he is not very hungry," responded the ingenious Giovanelli. "He will have to take me first; you

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. Then, as he was going to advance again, he checked himself, not from the fear

that he was doing her injustice, but from a sense of the danger of appearing unbecomingly exhilarated by this

sudden revulsion from cautious criticism. He turned away toward the entrance of the place, but, as he did so,

What a clever little reprobate she was, and how smartly she played at injured innocence! But he wouldn't cut

her. Winterbourne came forward again and went toward the great cross. Daisy had got up; Giovanelli lifted

his hat. Winterbourne had now begun to think simply of the craziness, from a sanitary point of view, of a

delicate young girl lounging away the evening in this nest of malaria. What if she WERE a clever little

reprobate? that was no reason for her dying of the perniciosa. "How long have you been here?" he asked

Daisy, lovely in the flattering moonlight, looked at him a moment. Then"All the evening," she answered,

"I am afraid," said Winterbourne, "that you will not think Roman fever very pretty. This is the way people

catch it. I wonder," he added, turning to Giovanelli, "that you, a native Roman, should countenance such a

Giovanelli lifted his wellshaped eyebrows and showed his brilliant teeth. But he took Winterbourne's rebuke

with docility. "I told the signorina it was a grave indiscretion, but when was the signorina ever prudent?"

"I never was sick, and I don't mean to be!" the signorina declared. "I don't look like much, but I'm healthy! I

was bound to see the Colosseum by moonlight; I shouldn't have wanted to go home without that; and we have

had the most beautiful time, haven't we, Mr. Giovanelli? If there has been any danger, Eugenio can give me

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

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

Daisy followed with Winterbourne. He kept looking at her; she seemed not in the least embarrassed.

Winterbourne said nothing; Daisy chattered about the beauty of the place. "Well, I HAVE seen the

Colosseum by moonlight!" she exclaimed. "That's one good thing." Then, noticing Winterbourne's silence,

she asked him why he didn't speak. He made no answer; he only began to laugh. They passed under one of

the dark archways; Giovanelli was in front with the carriage. Here Daisy stopped a moment, looking at the

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

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

He felt the young girl's pretty eyes fixed upon him through the thick gloom of the archway; she was

apparently going to answer. But Giovanelli hurried her forward. "Quick! quick!" he said; "if we get in by

Daisy took her seat in the carriage, and the fortunate Italian placed himself beside her. "Don't forget

"I don't care," said Daisy in a little strange tone, "whether I have Roman fever or not!" Upon this the cab

driver cracked his whip, and they rolled away over the desultory patches of the antique pavement.

Winterbourne, to do him justice, as it were, mentioned to no one that he had encountered Miss Miller, at

midnight, in the Colosseum with a gentleman; but nevertheless, a couple of days later, the fact of her having

been there under these circumstances was known to every member of the little American circle, and

commented accordingly. Winterbourne reflected that they had of course known it at the hotel, and that, after

Daisy's return, there had been an exchange of remarks between the porter and the cab driver. But the young

man was conscious, at the same moment, that it had ceased to be a matter of serious regret to him that the

little American flirt should be "talked about" by lowminded menials. These people, a day or two later, had

serious information to give: the little American flirt was alarmingly ill. Winterbourne, when the rumor came

to him, immediately went to the hotel for more news. He found that two or three charitable friends had

preceded him, and that they were being entertained in Mrs. Miller's salon by Randolph.

"It's going round at night," said Randolph"that's what made her sick. She's always going round at night. I

shouldn't think she'd want to, it's so plaguy dark. You can't see anything here at night, except when there's a

moon. In America there's always a moon!" Mrs. Miller was invisible; she was now, at least, giving her

aughter the advantage of her society. It was evident that Daisy was dangerously ill.

Winterbourne went often to ask for news of her, and once he saw Mrs. Miller, who, though deeply alarmed,

was, rather to his surprise, perfectly composed, and, as it appeared, a most efficient and judicious nurse. She

talked a good deal about Dr. Davis, but Winterbourne paid her the compliment of saying to himself that she

was not, after all, such a monstrous goose. "Daisy spoke of you the other day," she said to him. "Half the time

she doesn't know what she's saying, but that time I think she did. She gave me a message she told me to tell

you. She told me to tell you that she never was engaged to that handsome Italian. I am sure I am very glad;

Mr. Giovanelli hasn't been near us since she was taken ill. I thought he was so much of a gentleman; but I

don't call that very polite! A lady told me that he was afraid I was angry with him for taking Daisy round at

night. Well, so I am, but I suppose he knows I'm a lady. I would scorn to scold him. Anyway, she says she's

not engaged. I don't know why she wanted you to know, but she said to me three times, 'Mind you tell Mr.

Winterbourne.' And then she told me to ask if you remembered the time you went to that castle in

Switzerland. But I said I wouldn't give any such messages as that. Only, if she is not engaged, I'm sure I'm

But, as Winterbourne had said, it mattered very little. A week after this, the poor girl died; it had been a

terrible case of the fever. Daisy's grave was in the little Protestant cemetery, in an angle of the wall of

imperial Rome, beneath the cypresses and the thick spring flowers. Winterbourne stood there beside it, with a

number of other mourners, a number larger than the scandal excited by the young lady's career would have

led you to expect. Near him stood Giovanelli, who came nearer still before Winterbourne turned away.

Giovanelli was very pale: on this occasion he had no flower in his buttonhole; he seemed to wish to say

something. At last he said, "She was the most beautiful young lady I ever saw, and the most amiable"; and

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

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

Mr. Giovanelli's urbanity was apparently imperturbable. He looked on the ground a moment, and then he

The subtle Roman again dropped his eyes. "If she had lived, I should have got nothing. She would never have

Winterbourne listened to him: he stood staring at the raw protuberance among the April daisies. When he

Winterbourne almost immediately left Rome; but the following summer he again met his aunt, Mrs. Costello

at Vevey. Mrs. Costello was fond of Vevey. In the interval Winterbourne had often thought of Daisy Miller

and her mystifying manners. One day he spoke of her to his auntsaid it was on his conscience that he had

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

"She sent me a message before her death which I didn't understand at the time; but I have understood it since.

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

Winterbourne offered no answer to this question; but he presently said, "You were right in that remark that

you made last summer. I was booked to make a mistake. I have lived too long in foreign parts."

Nevertheless, he went back to live at Geneva, whence there continue to come the most contradictory accounts

of his motives of sojourn: a report that he is "studying" hardan intimation that he is much interested in a