 Section 1 of Daisy Miller. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Gesine. Daisy Miller, a study in two parts by Henry James. Section 1. Part 1. At the little town of Vivi, in Switzerland, there is a particularly comfortable hotel. There are indeed many hotels, for the entertainment of tourists is the business of the place, which, as many travellers will remember, is seated upon the edge of a remarkably blue lake, a lake that it 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 chalk-white 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 German-looking lettering upon a pink or yellow wall and an awkward summer house in the angle of the garden. One of the hotels at Vivi, however, is famous even classical, being distinguished from many of its upstart neighbours by an air-birth of luxury and of maturity. In this region, in the months of June, American travellers are extremely numerous. It may be said indeed that Vivi assumes at this period some of the characteristics of an American watering place. There are sights and sounds which evoke vision and echo of Newport and Saratoga. There is a flitting hither and zither of stylish young girls, a rustling of muslin flances, a rattle of dance music in the morning hours, a sound of high-pitched voices at all times. He received an impression of these things at the excellent inn of the Trocouron and are transported in fancy to the Ocean House or to Congress Hall. But at the Trocouron it must be added there are other features that are much at variance with these suggestions. Meet 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 governess. A view of the sunny crest of the Don du Midi and the picturesque towers of the castle of Chillon. I hardly know whether it was the analogies or the differences that were uppermost in the mind of a young American who two or three years ago sat in the garden of the Trocouron looking about him rather idly at some of the graceful objects I have mentioned. It was a beautiful summer morning and in whatever fashion the young American looked at things they must have seemed to him charming. He had come from Geneva the day before by the little steamer to see his aunt who was staying at the hotel Geneva having been for a long time his place of residence. But his aunt had a headache. His aunt had almost always a headache and now she was shut up in her room smelling camphor so that he was at liberty to wander about. He was some seven and twenty years of age. When his friends spoke of him they usually said that he was at Geneva studying. When his enemies spoke of him they said, but after all he had no enemies. He was an extremely amiable fellow and universally liked. What I should say is simply that when a certain person spoke of him they affirmed that the reason of his spending so much time at Geneva was that he was extremely devoted to a lady who lived there, a foreign lady, a person older than himself. Very few Americans, indeed I think none, had ever seen this lady about whom there were some singular stories. But Winterborne 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 there. Circumstances which had led to his forming a great many youthful friendships. Many of these he had kept and they were a source of great satisfaction to him. After knocking at his aunt's door and learning that she was indisposed he had taken a walk about the town and then he had come into his breakfast. He had now finished his breakfast but he was drinking a small cup of coffee which had been served to him on a little table in the garden by one of the waiters who looked like an attaché. At last he finished his coffee and lit a cigarette. Presently a small boy came walking along the path, an urchin of nine or ten. The child who was diminutive for his years had an aged expression of countenance, a pale complexion and sharp little features. He was dressed in knicker-bockers, with red stockings which displayed his poor little spindle-shanks. He also wore a brilliant red cravat. He carried in his hand a long alpinestock, the sharp point of which he thrust into everything that he approached, the flower beds, the garden benches, the trains of the lady's dresses. In front of Winterbourne he paused, looking at him with a pair of bright, penetrating little eyes. Will he give me a lump of sugar? He asked in a sharp, hard little voice, a voice immature and yet somehow not young. Winterbourne glanced at the small table near him, on which his coffee-service rested and saw that several morsels of sugar remained. Yes, you may take one, he answered, but I didn't think sugar is good for little boys. This little boy stepped forward and carefully selected three of the coveted fragments, two of which he buried in the pocket of his knicker-bockers, depositing the others promptly in another place. He poked his alpinestock, lanced fashion, into Winterbourne's bench and tried to crack the lump of sugar with his teeth. Oh, blazes, it's hard! he exclaimed, pronouncing the adjective in a peculiar manner. Winterbourne had immediately perceived that he might have the honour of claiming him as a fellow countryman. Take care you don't hurt your teeth, he said, paternally. I haven't got any teeth to hurt. They have all come out. I have only got seven teeth. My mother counted them last night, and one came out right afterward. She said she'd slapped 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 would certainly slap you, he said. She's got to give me some candy, then, rejoined his young interlocutor. I can't get any candy here, any American candy. American candy's the best candy. And are American little boys the best little boys? asked Winterbourne. I don't know. I'm an American boy, said the child. I see you're one of the best, laughed Winterbourne. Are you an American man? pursued this vivacious infant. And then, on Winterbourne's affirmative reply, American men are the best, he declared. His companion thanked him for the compliment, and the child, who had now got astride of his Alpenstock, stood looking about him while he attacked a second lump of sugar. Winterbourne wondered if he himself had been like this in his infancy, for he had been brought to Europe at about this age. Here comes my sister, cried the child in a moment. She's an American girl. Winterbourne looked along the path and saw a beautiful young lady advancing. American girls are the best girls, he said cheerfully to his young companion. My sister ain't the best, the child declared. She's always blowing at me. I imagine that is your fault, not hers, said Winterbourne. The young lady, meanwhile, had drawn near. She was dressed in white muslin, with a hundred frills and flances and knots of pale-coloured ribbon. She was bare-headed, but she balanced in her hand a little parasol with a deep border of embroidery, and she was strikingly admirably pretty. How pretty you are! thought Winterbourne, straightening himself in his seat, as if he were prepared to rise. The young lady paused in front of his bench, near the parapet of the garden, which overlooked the lake. The little boy had now converted his Alpenstock into a vaulting-pill, by the aid of which he was springing about in the gravel and kicking it up, not a little. Randolph said the young lady, what are you doing? I'm going up the Alps, replied Randolph. This is the way. And he gave another little jump, scattering the pebbles about Winterbourne's ears. That's the way they come down, said Winterbourne. He's an American man, cried Randolph, in his little hard voice. The young lady gave no heed to this announcement, but looked straight at her brother. Well, I guess he had better be quiet, she simply observed. It seemed to Winterbourne that he had been in a manner presented. He got up and stepped slowly toward the young girl, throwing away his cigarette. The little boy and I have made an 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 o'caring conditions. But here, at Vivée, what conditions could be better than these? A pretty American girl coming and standing in front of you in a garden. This pretty American girl, however, on hearing Winterbourne's observation, simply glanced at him. She then turned her head and looked over the parapet, at the lake and the opposite mountains. He wondered whether he had gone too far, but he decided that he must advance farther, rather than retreat. While he was thinking of something else to say, the young lady turned to the little boy again. I should like to know where you got that pole, she said. I bought it, responded Randolph. He don't mean to say you're going to take it to Italy. Yes, I'm going to take it to Italy, the child declared. The young girl glanced over the front of her dress and smoothed out a knot or two of ribbon. Then she rested her eyes upon the prospect again. Well, I guess you had better leave it somewhere, she said after a moment. Are you going to Italy? Winterbourne inquired in a turn of great respect. The young lady glanced at him again. Yes, sir. She replied, and she said nothing more. Are you going over the simplon? Winterbourne pursued. A little embarrassed. I don't know, she said. I suppose it's some mountain. Randolph, what mountain are we going over? Going where, the child demanded. To Italy, Winterbourne explained. I don't know, said Randolph. I don't want to go to Italy. I want to go to America. Oh, Italy's a beautiful place, rejoined the young man. Can you get candy there? Randolph loudly inquired. I hope not, said his sister. I guess you have had enough candy, and Mother thinks so too. I haven't had any for ever so long, for a hundred weeks, cried the boy, still jumping about. The young lady inspected her flances 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 been not the slightest alteration in her charming complexion. She was evidently neither offended nor fluttered. If she looked another way when he spoke to her, and seemed not particularly to hear him, this was simply her habit, her manner. Yet, as he talked a little more and pointed out some of the objects of interest in the view, with which she appeared quite unacquainted, she gradually gave him more of the benefit of her glance, and then he saw that this glance was perfectly direct and unshrinking. It was not, however, what would have been called an immodest glance. For the young girl's eyes were singularly honest and fresh. They were wonderfully pretty eyes, and indeed Winterbourne had not seen for a long time anything prettier than his fair country woman's various features, her complexion, her nose, her ears, her teeth. He had a great relish for feminine beauty. He was addicted to observing and analysing it. And as regards this young lady's face, he made several observations. It was not at all insipid, but it was not exactly expressive, and though it was eminently delicate, Winterbourne mentally accused it, very forgivingly, of a want of finish. He thought it very possible that Master Randolph's sister was a coquette. He was sure she had a spirit of her own. But in her bright, sweet, superficial little visage, there was no mockery, no irony. Before long it became obvious that she was much disposed toward conversation. She told him that they were going to Rome for the winter, she and her mother and Randolph. She asked him if he was a real American. She shouldn't have taken him for one. He seemed more like a German. This was said after a little hesitation, especially when he spoke. Winterbourne, laughing, answered that he had met Germans who spoke like Americans, but that he had not, as 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. Tell me your name, my boy, he said. Randolph C. Miller, said the boy sharply, and I'll tell you her name, and he levelled his album-stock at his sister. He had better wait till you are asked, said this young lady calmly. I should like very much to know your name, said Winterbourne. Her name is Daisy Miller, cried the child. But that isn't her real name. That isn't her name on her cards. It's a pity you haven't got one of my cards, said Miss Miller. Her real name is Annie P. Miller, the boy went on. Ask him his name, said his sister, indicating Winterbourne. But on this point Randolph seemed perfectly indifferent. He continued to supply information with regard to his own family. My father's name is Ezra B. Miller. He announced, my father ain't in Europe. My father's in a better place than Europe. Winterbourne imagined for a moment that this was the manner in which the child had been taught to intimate that Mr. Miller had been removed to the sphere of celestial reward. But Randolph immediately added, my father's in Schenectady. He's got a big business. My father's rich, you bet. Well, ejaculated Miss Miller, luring her parasol and looking at the embroidered border. Winterbourne presently released the child, who departed dragging his Alpenstock along the path. He doesn't like Europe, said the young girl. He wants to go back to Schenectady, you mean? Yes, he wants to go right home. He hasn't got any boys here. There is one boy here, but he always goes round with the teacher. They won't let him play. And your brother hasn't any teacher? Winterbourne inquired. What's the sort of getting him one to travel round with us? There was a lady told her of a very good teacher, an American lady. Perhaps you know her, Mrs. Sanders. I think she came from Boston. She told us of this teacher, and we thought of getting him to travel round with us. But Randolph said he didn't want a teacher travelling round with us. He said he wouldn't have lessons when he was in the cars. And we are in the cars about half the time. There was an English lady we met in the cars. I think her name was Miss Featherstone. Perhaps you know her. She wanted to know why I didn't give Randolph lessons. Give him instruction, she called it. I guess he could give me more instruction than I could give him. He's very smart. Said Winterbourne, he seems very smart. Mother's going to get a teacher for him as soon as we get to Italy. Can he get good teachers in Italy? Very good, I should think, said Winterbourne. Or else she's going to find some school. He ought to learn some more. He's only nine. He's going to college. And in this way Miss Miller continued to converse upon the affairs of her family and upon other topics. She sat there with her extremely pretty hands ornamented with very brilliant rings folded in her lap and with her very 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 on a bench that she chatted. 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 many. It's nothing but hotels. But Miss Miller did not make this remark with a quarrelous accent. She appeared to be in the best humour with everything. She declared that the hotels were very good when once they got used to their ways and that Europe was perfectly sweet. She was not disappointed, not a bit. Perhaps it was because she had heard so much about it before. She had ever so many intimate friends that had been there ever so many times and then she had ever so many dresses and things from Paris. Whenever she put on a Paris dress she felt as if she were in Europe. It was a kind of a wishing cap, said Winterbourne. Yes. Said Miss Miller without examining this analogy it always made me wish I was here but I needn't have done that for dresses. I am sure they send all the pretty ones to America. He sees 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've always had a great deal of it. I don't mean only in this connectivity 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 17 dinners given me and three of them were by gentlemen. I visited Daisy Miller. I have more friends in New York than in Schenectady. More gentlemen friends and more young lady friends too. She resumed in a moment. She paused again for an instant. She was looking at Winterbourne with all her prettiness and her lively eyes and in her light, slightly monotonous smile. I have always had, she said, a great deal of gentlemen's society. End of Section 1. Recorded magazine in August 2007. Section 2 of Daisy Miller. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Miranda Stinson. Daisy Miller, a study in two parts by Henry James. Section 2. 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 ankle-and-duit, 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 deucidly 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 gentleman's society? Or was she also a designing and audacious and unscrupulous young person? Winterborne had lost his instinct in this matter and his reason could not help him. Miss Daisy Miller looked extremely innocent. Some people had told him that after all American girls were exceedingly innocent, and others had told him that, after all, they were not. He was inclined to think Miss Daisy Miller was a flirt, a pretty American flirt. He had never, as yet, had any relations with young ladies of this category. He had known here in Europe two or three women, persons older than Miss Daisy Miller, and provided for respectability's sake with husbands who were great coquettes, dangerous, terrible women with whom one's relations were liable to take a serious turn. But this young girl was not a coquette in that sense. She was very unsophisticated. She was only a pretty American flirt. Winterborne was almost grateful for having found the formula that applied to Miss Daisy Miller. He leaned back in his seat. He remarked to himself that she had the most charming nose he had ever seen. He wondered what were the regular conditions and limitations of one's intercourse with a pretty American flirt. It presently became apparent that he was on the way to learn. "'Have you been to that old castle?' asked the young girl, pointing with her parasol to the far-gleaming walls of the chateau de chial. "'Yes, formally, more than once,' said Winterborne. "'You too, I suppose, have seen it.' "'No, we haven't been there. I want to go there dreadfully. Of course I mean to go there. I wouldn't go away from here without having seen that old castle.' "'It's a very pretty excursion,' said Winterborne, and very easy to make. "'You can drive, you know, or you can go by the little steamer. "'You can go in the cars,' said Miss Miller. "'Yes, you can go in the cars,' Winterborne assented. "'Our courier says they take you right up to the castle.' The young girl continued. "'We were going last week, but my mother gave out. "'She suffers dreadfully from dyspepsia. She said she couldn't go. Randolph wouldn't go either. He says he doesn't think much of old castles. "'But I guess we'll go this week if we can get Randolph.' "'Your brother is not interested in ancient monuments,' Winterborne inquired, smiling. "'He says he don't care much about old castles. He's only nine. He wants to stay at the hotel. He's afraid to leave him alone, and the courier won't stay with him. Said 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 Winterborne. "'Couldn't you get someone to stay for the afternoon with Randolph?' Miss Miller looked at him a moment, and then, very placidly, "'I wish you would stay with him,' she said. Winterborne hesitated a moment. "'I should much rather go to Chillon with you.' "'With me,' asked the young girl with the same placidity. She didn't rise, blushing as a young girl at Geneva would have done. And yet Winterborne, conscious that he had been very bold, thought it possible she was offended. "'With your mother,' he answered very respectfully.' But it seemed that both his audacity and his respect were lost upon Miss Daisy Miller. "'I guess my mother won't go after all,' she said. "'She don't like to ride round in the afternoon.' "'But did you really mean what you said just now? "'That you would like to go up there?' "'Most earnestly,' Winterborne declared. "'Then we may arrange it. "'If mother will stay with Randolph, I guess Eugenio will.' "'Eugenio,' the young man inquired. "'Eugenio's our courier. "'He doesn't like to stay with Randolph. "'He's the most fastidious man I ever saw. "'But he's a splendid courier. "'I guess he'll stay at home with Randolph if mother does. "'And then we can go to the castle.' Winterborne 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 Miss Miller with the friendliest accent. "'Eugenio had looked at Winterborne from head to foot. "'He now bowed gravely to the young lady. "'I have the honour to inform mademoiselle that luncheon is upon the table.' Miss Miller slowly rose. "'See here, Eugenio,' she said. "'I'm going to that old castle, anyway.' "'To the chateau de chion, mademoiselle,' the courier inquired. "'Mademoiselle has made arrangements,' he added in tone which struck Winterborne as very impertinent. Eugenio's tone apparently threw, even to Miss Miller's own apprehension, a slightly ironical light upon the young girl's situation. She turned to Winterborne, blushing a little—a very little. "'You won't back out,' she said. "'I shall not be happy till we go,' he protested. "'And you are staying in this hotel,' she went on. "'And are you really an American?' The courier stood looking at Winterborne offensively. The young man at least thought his manner of looking an offence to Miss Miller. It conveyed an imputation that she picked up acquaintances. "'I shall have the honour of presenting you to a person who will tell you all about me,' he said, smiling and referring to his aunt. "'Oh, well, we'll go some day,' said Miss Miller, and she gave him a smile and turned away. She put up her parasol and walked back to the inn beside Eugenio. Winterborne stood looking after her, and as she moved away drawing her muslin fur-bellows over the gravel, said to himself that she had the tenure of a princess. He had, however, engaged to do more than prove 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 if she had observed in the hotel a little American family, a mama, a daughter, and a little boy. "'And a courier,' said Mrs. Costello, "'Oh, yes, I have observed them, seen them, heard them, and kept out of their way.' Mrs. Costello was a widow with a fortune, a person of much distinction who frequently intimated that if she were not so dreadfully liable to sick headaches she would probably have left a deeper impress upon her time. She had a long pale face, a high nose, and a great deal of very striking white hair which she wore in large puffs and rouleaux over the top of her head. She had two sons married in New York and another 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 vivay expressly to see her, was therefore more attentive than those who, as she said, were nearer to her. He had imbibed at Geneva the idea that one must always be attentive to one's aunt. Mrs. Costello had not seen him for many years and she was greatly pleased with him, manifesting her approbation by initiating him into many of the secrets of that social sway which, as she gave him to understand, she exerted in the American capital. She admitted that she was very exclusive, but if he were acquainted with New York he would see that one had to be. And her picture of the minutely hierarchical constitution of the society of that city which she presented to him in many different lights was, to Winterborne's imagination, almost oppressively striking. He immediately perceived from her tone that Miss Daisy Miller's place in the social scale was low. I am afraid you don't approve of them," he said. They are very common, Mrs. Costello declared. They are the sort of Americans that one does one's duty by not—not accepting. Ah, you don't accept them, said the young man. I can't, my dear Frederick. I would if I could, but I can't. The young girl is very pretty, said Winterborne in a moment. Of course she's pretty, but she is very common. I see what you mean, of course," said Winterborne after another pause. She has that charming look that they all have. His aunt resumed, I can't think where they pick it up, and she dresses in perfection. No, you don't know how well she dresses. I can't think where they get their taste. But, my dear aunt, she is not, after all, a Comanche savage. She is a young lady, said Mrs. Costello, who has an intimacy with her momma's courier. An intimacy with the courier, the young man demanded. Oh, the mother is just as bad. They treat the courier like a familiar friend, like a gentleman. I shouldn't wonder if he dines with them. Very likely they have never seen a man with such good manners, such fine clothes, so like a gentleman. He probably corresponds to the young lady's idea of a count. He sits with them in the garden in the evening. I think he smokes. Winterborne listened with interest to these disclosures. They helped him to make up his mind about Miss Daisy. Evidently she was rather wild. Well, he said, I am not a courier, and yet she was very charming to me. You had better have said at first, said Mrs. Costello with dignity, that you had made her acquaintance. We simply met in the garden, and we talked a bit. Tu bon bon! And pray, what did you say? I said I should take the liberty of introducing her to my admirable aunt. I am much obliged to you. It was to guarantee my respectability, said Winterborne, and pray, who is to guarantee hers? Ah, you are cruel, said the young man. She's a very nice girl. You don't say that as if you believed it, Mrs. Costello observed. She is completely uncultivated, Winterborne 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 twenty-four hours in the house. I have known her half an hour, said Winterborne, smiling. Dear me! cried Mrs. Costello. What a dreadful girl! Her nephew was silent for some moments. You really think then, he began earnestly, and with a desire for trustworthy information, you really think that—but he paused again. Think what, sir, said his aunt? That she is the sort of young lady who expects a man sooner or later to carry her off? I haven't the least idea what such young ladies expect a man to do, but I really think that you had better not meddle with little American girls that are uncultivated, as you call them. You have lived too long out of the country. You will be sure to make some great mistake. You are too innocent. My dear aunt, I am not so innocent, said Winterborne, smiling and curling his mustache. You are too guilty then." Winterborne continued to curl his mustache meditatively. You won't let the poor girl know you then, he asked at last. Is it literally true that she is going to the Chateau de Chillon with you? I think that she fully intends it. Then, my dear Frederick, said Mrs. Castello, I must decline the honour of her acquaintance. I am an old woman, but I am not too old, thank heaven, to be shocked. But don't they all do these things? The young girls in America, Winterborne inquired. Mrs. Castello 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 Winterborne 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. Winterborne was impatient to see her again, and he was vexed with himself that, by instinct, he should not appreciate her justly. Though he was impatient to see her, he hardly knew what he should say to her about his aunt's refusal to become acquainted with her. But he discovered promptly enough that with Miss Daisy Miller there was no great need of walking on tiptoe. He found 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, he had been sitting with her since dinner, and he had just taken leave of her till the morrow. Miss Daisy Miller seemed very glad to see him. She declared it was the longest evening she had ever passed. Have you been all alone? he asked. I have been walking round with mother. But mother gets tired walking round, she answered. Has she gone to bed? No. She doesn't like to go to bed, said the young girl. She doesn't sleep, not three hours. She says she doesn't know how she lives. She's dreadfully nervous. I guess she sleeps more than she thinks. She's gone somewhere after Randolph. She wants to try to get him to go to bed. He doesn't like to go to bed. Let us hope she will persuade him, observed Winterborne. 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 Winterborne 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 Winterborne'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 comilful. She wore white puffs, she spoke to no one, and she never dined at the table dote. Every two days she had a headache. I think that's a lovely description, a headache in all, said Miss Daisy, chattering along in her thin gay voice. I want to know her ever so much. I know just what your aunt would be. I know I should like her. She would be very exclusive. I like a lady to be exclusive. I'm dying to be exclusive myself. Well, we are exclusive, mother and I. We don't speak to everyone, or they don't speak to us. I suppose it's about the same thing. Anyway, I shall be ever so glad to know your aunt. Winterborne was embarrassed. She would be most happy, he said, but I'm afraid those headaches will interfere. The young girl looked at him through the dusk. But I suppose she doesn't have a headache every day, she said sympathetically. Winterborne was silent a moment. She tells me she does, he answered at last, not knowing what to say. Miss Daisy Miller stopped and stood looking at him. Her prettiness was still visible in the darkness. She was opening and closing her enormous fan. She doesn't want to know me, she said suddenly. Why don't you say so? You needn't be afraid. I'm not afraid. And she gave a little laugh. Winterborne fancied there was a tremor in her voice. He was touched, shocked, mortified by it. My dear young lady, he protested. She knows no one. It's her wretched health. End of Section 2, recording by Miranda Stinson. Section 3 of Daisy Miller. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Michael Labishak. Daisy Miller, a study in two parts, by Henry James. Section 3. The young girl walked on a few steps, laughing still. You'd 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 inclusive, she said. Winterborne 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 brood woman and to declare that they'd needn't mind her. But before he had time to commit himself to this perilous mixture of gallantry and impiety, the young lady, resuming her walk, gave an exclamation in quite another tone. Well, here's mother! I guess she hasn't got Randolph to go to bed. The figure of a lady appeared at a distance. Very indistinct in the darkness and advancing with a slow and wavering movement. Suddenly it seemed to pause. Are you sure it is your mother? Can you distinguish her in this thick dusk? Winterborne asked. Well! cried Miss Daisy Miller with a laugh. I guess I know my own mother. And when she has gotten my shawl, too, she is always wearing my things. The lady in question, ceasing to advance, hovered vaguely about the spot at which she had checked her steps. I'm afraid your mother doesn't see you, said Winterborne. Or perhaps, he added, thinking with Miss Miller the joke permissible, perhaps she feels guilty about your shawl. Oh, hint of fearful old thing, the young girl replied serenely. I told her she could wear it. She won't come here because she sees you. Ah, then, said Winterborne, I had better leave you. Oh, no, come on, urged Miss Daisy Miller. I'm afraid your mother doesn't approve of my walking with you. Miss Miller gave him a serious glance. It isn't for me, it's for you. That is, it's for her. Well, I don't know who it's for, but mother doesn't like any of my gentlemen friends. She's right down timid. She always makes a fuss if I introduce a gentleman. But I do introduce them, almost always. If I didn't introduce my gentlemen friends to mother, the young girl added in her little soft flat monotone, I shouldn't think I was natural. To introduce me, said Winterborne, you must know my name. And she 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, the elder lady turned round. Mr. Winterborne, 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 Winterborne that with her commonness she had a singularly delicate grace. Her mother was a small, spare, light person with a wandering eye, a very exiduous 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 Winterborne could observe, she gave him no greeting. She certainly was not looking at him. Daisy was near her, pulling her shawl straight. What are you doing poking round here, this young lady inquired, but by no means with that harshness of accent which her choice of words may imply. I don't know, said her mother, turning toward the lake again. I shouldn't think you'd want that shawl, Daisy exclaimed. Well, I do, her mother answered with a little laugh. Did you get Randolph to go to bed, asked the young girl? No, I couldn't induce him, said Mrs. Miller very gently. He wants to talk to the waiter. He likes to talk to that waiter. I was telling Mr. Winterborne, the young girl went on, and to the young man's ear her tone might have indicated that she had been uttering his name all her life. Oh, yes, said Winterborne, I have the pleasure of knowing your son. Randolph's mama was silent. She turned her attention to the lake, but at last she spoke. Well, I don't see how he lives. Anyhow, it isn't so bad as it was at Dover, said Daisy Miller. And what occurred at Dover, Winterborne asked. 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 o'clock, I know that. It was half past twelve, declared Mrs. Miller with mild emphasis. Does he sleep much during the day, Winterborne demanded. I guess he doesn't sleep much, Daisy rejoined. I wish he would, said her mother. It seems as if he couldn't. I think he's real tiresome, Daisy pursued. Then, for some moments, there was silence. Well, Daisy Miller, said the elder lady presently, I shouldn't think you'd want to talk against your own brother. Well, he is tiresome mother, said Daisy, quite without the asperity of a retort. He's only nine, urged Mrs. Miller. Well, he wouldn't go to that castle, said the young girl. I'm going there with Mr. Winterborne. To this announcement, very placidly made, Daisy's mama offered no response. Winterborne took for granted that she deeply disapproved of the projected excursion, but he said to himself that she was a simple, easily managed person, and that a few deferential protestations would take the edge from her displeasure. Yes, he began, your daughter has kindly allowed me the honour of being her guide. Mrs. Miller's wandering eyes attached themselves with a sort of 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. Yes, or in the boat, said Winterborne. 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 Winterborne, beginning to feel reassured as to her opposition, and yet he was quite prepared to find that, as a matter of course, she meant to accompany her daughter. We've been thinking ever so much about going, she pursued, but it seems as if we couldn't. Of course Daisy, she wants to go round, but there's a lady here. I don't know her name. She says she shouldn't think we'd want to go to see castles here. She should think we'd want to wait till we got to Italy. It seems as if there would be so many there, continued Mrs. Miller with an air of increasing confidence. Of course we only want to see the principal once. We visited several in England, she presently added. Ah, yes, in England there are beautiful castles, said Winterborne. But Chillon here is very well worth seeing. Well, if Daisy feels up to it, said Mrs. Miller in a tone, impregnated with a sense of the magnitude of the enterprise. It seems as if there was nothing she wouldn't undertake. Oh, I think she'll enjoy it, Winterborne declared, and he desired more and more to make it a certainty to have the privilege of a tetetet 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 in instant scans and then walked forward in silence. Then, I guess she had better go alone, she said simply. Winterborne observed to himself that this was a very different type of maternity from that of the vigilant matrons who cast themselves in the forefront of social intercourse in the dark old city at the other end of the lake. But his meditations were interrupted by hearing his name very distinctly pronounced by Mrs. Miller's unprotected daughter. Mr. Winterborne, murmured Daisy, Mademoiselle, said the young man, don't you want to take me out on a boat? At present, he asked, of course, said Daisy. Well, Annie Miller exclaimed her mother, I beg you, Madam, to let her go, said Winterborne ardently, for he had never yet enjoyed the sensation of guiding through the summer starlight a skiff rated 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. Winterborne wants to take me, Daisy declared. He's so awfully devoted. I will row you over to she own in the starlight. I don't believe it, said Daisy. Well, ejaculated the elder lady again. You haven't spoken to me for half an hour, her daughter went on. I've been having some very pleasant conversation with your mother, said Winterborne. Well, I want you to take me out on a boat, Daisy repeated. They had all stopped, and she had turned round and was looking at Winterborne. 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 Winterborne. There are half a dozen boats moored at that landing place, he said, pointing to certain steps which descended from the garden to the lake. If you will do me the honour to accept my arm, we will go and select one of them. Daisy stood there smiling. She threw back her head and gave a little light laugh. I like a gentleman to be formal, she declared. I assure you it's a formal offer. I was banned, I would make you say something, Daisy went on. You see, it's not very difficult, said Winterborne, but I'm afraid you are chaffing me. I think not, sir, remarked Mrs. Miller very gently. Do then, let me give you a row, he said to the young girl. It's quite lovely the way you say that, cried Daisy. It would be still more lovely to do it. Yes, it would be lovely, said Daisy, but she made no movement to accompany him. She stood there, laughing. I should think you had better find out what time it is and to pose to her mother. It is eleven o'clock, madam, said a voice with a foreign accent out of the neighbouring darkness, and Winterborne, turning, perceived the floored personage who was in attendance upon the two ladies. He had apparently just approached. Oh, Eugenio, said Daisy, I am going out in a boat. Eugenio bowed at eleven o'clock, mademoiselle. I am going with Mr. Winterborne this very minute. Do tell her she can't, said Mrs. Miller to the courier. I think you had better not go out in a boat, mademoiselle, Eugenio declared. Winterborne wished to heaven this pretty girl who were not so familiar with her courier, but he said nothing. I suppose you don't think it's proper, Daisy exclaimed. Eugenio doesn't think anything's proper. I am at your service, said Winterborne. Does mademoiselle propose to go alone? Asked Eugenio of Mrs. Miller. Oh, no, with this gentleman, answered Daisy's mama. The courier looked for a moment at Winterborne. The latter thought he was smiling, and then solemnly with a bow, as mademoiselle pleases, he said. Oh, I hoped you would make a fuss, said Daisy. I don't care to go now. I myself shall make a fuss if you don't go, said Winterborne. That's all I want, a little fuss, and the young girl began to laugh again. Mr. Randolph has gone to bed, the courier announced frigidly. Oh, Daisy, now we can go, said Mrs. Miller. Daisy turned away from Winterborne, looking at him, smiling and fanning herself. Good night, she said. I hope you are disappointed or disgusted or something. He looked at her, taking the hand she offered him. I am puzzled, he answered. Well, I hope it won't keep you awake, she said very smartly, and under the escort of the privileged Eugenio, the two ladies passed toward the house. Winterborne 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 ducidly going off with her somewhere. Two days afterward, he went off with her to the castle of Shiyong. 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 travelling costume. Winterborne 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 was 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. Winterborne's preference had been that they should be conveyed to Shiyong 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 Winterborne's companion found time to say a great many things. To the young man himself, their little excursion was so much of an escapade, an adventure that even allowing for her habitual sense of freedom, he had some expectation of seeing her regarded 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 great deal, and Winterborne took much satisfaction in his pretty companion's distinguished air. He had been a little afraid that she would talk loud, laugh over much, 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 ascended 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 termed the objective cast, but every now and then it took a subjective turn. What on earth are you so grave about? She suddenly demanded, fixing her agreeable eyes upon Winterborne's. Am I grave? He asked. I had an idea. I was grinning from ear to ear. You look as if you were taking me to a funeral. If that's a grin, your ears are very near together. Should you like me to dance a hornpipe on the deck? Pray do, and I'll carry round your hat. It will pay the expenses of our journey. I never was better pleased in my life, murmured Winterborne. She looked at him a moment and then burst into a little laugh. I like to make you say those things, and you're a queer mixture. In the castle, after they had landed, the subjective element decidedly prevailed. Daisy tripped about the vaulted chambers, rustled her skirts in the corkscrew staircases, floated back with a pretty little cry and a shudder from the edge of the obliets, and turned a singularly well-shaped ear to everything that Winterborne told her about the place. But he saw that she cared very little for feudal antiquities and that the Dotsky 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 Winterborne arranged with his functionary that they should not be hurried, that they should linger and pause wherever they chose. The custodian interpreted the bargain generously. Winterborne, on his side, had been generous, and 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 Winterborne sudden questions about himself, his family, his previous history, his tastes, his habits, his intentions, and for supplying information upon corresponding points in her own personality. Of her own tastes, habits, and intentions, Miss Miller was prepared to give the most definite and indeed the most favorable account. Well, I hope you know enough, she said to her companion, after he had told her the history of the unhappy Bonavard, I never saw a man that knew so much. The history of Bonavard had evidently, as they say, gone into one year and out of the other. But Daisy went on to say that she wished Winterborne 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. Winterborne said that nothing could possibly please him so much, but that he had, unfortunately, other occupations. Other occupations? I don't believe it, said Miss Daisy. What do you mean? You are not in business? The young man admitted that he was not in business, but he had engagements which, even within a day or two, would force him to go back to Geneva. Oh, bother, she said, I don't believe it. And she began to talk about something else. But a few moments later, when he was pointing out to her the pretty design of an antique fireplace, she broke out irrelevantly. You don't mean to say you were going back to Geneva? It is a melancholy fact that I shall have to return to Geneva tomorrow. Well, Mr. Winterborne, said Daisy, I think you're horrid. Oh, don't say such dreadful things, said Winterborne. Just at the last? The last! Quite the young girl, I call it the first. I have half of mine 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 Winterborne was fairly bewildered. No young lady had as yet done him the honour to be so agitated by the announcement of his movements. His companion, after this, ceased to pay any attention to the curiosities of Chillon or the beauties of the lake. She opened fire upon the mysterious charmer in Geneva whom she appeared to have instantly taken it for granted that he was hurrying back to sea. How did Miss Daisy Miller know that there was a charmer in Geneva? Winterborne, 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? Ask 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 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. Winterborne began to think he had been wrong to feel disappointed in the temper in which the young lady had embarked. If he had missed the personal accent, the personal accent was now making its appearance. It sounded very distinctly, at last, in her telling him she would stop teasing him if he would promise her solemnly to come down to Rome in the winter. That's not a difficult promise to make, said Winterborne. My aunt has taken an apartment in Rome for the winter and has already asked me to come and see her. I don't want you to come for your aunt, said Daisy, I want you to come for me. And this was the only allusion that the young man was ever to hear her make to his invidious kin's woman. He declared that, at any rate, he would certainly come. After this Daisy stopped teasing. Winterborne took a carriage and they drove back to Viveil in the dusk. The young girl was very quiet. In the evening, Winterborne mentioned to Mrs. Costello that he had spent the afternoon at Chillon with Miss Daisy Miller. The Americans of the courier asked this lady, ah, happily, said Winterborne, the courier stayed at home. She went with you all alone? All alone. Mrs. Costello sniffed a little at her smelling bottle. And that, she exclaimed, is the young person whom you wanted me to know. End of Section 3 Recording by Michael de Bissha Section 4 of Daisy Miller This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Corey Samuel Daisy Miller, a study in two parts by Henry James. Section 4 Part 2 Winterborne, 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 Vevi have turned up here, courier and all, she wrote. They seem to have made several acquaintances, but the courier continues to be the most anti-May. The young lady, however, is also very intimate with some third-rate Italians, with whom she rackets about in a way that makes much talk. Bring me that pretty novel of Cherbuliers, Paul Le Maire, and don't come later than the twenty-third. In a natural course of events, Winterborne, on arriving in Rome, would presently have ascertained Mrs. Miller's address of the American bankers and have gone to pay his compliments to Miss Daisy. After what happened at Vevi, I think I may certainly call upon them, he said to Mrs. Costello. If, after what happens, at Vevi and everywhere, you desire to keep up the acquaintance, you are very welcome. Of course a man may know everyone. Men are welcome to the privilege. Pray what is it that happens here, for instance, Winterborne demanded. The girl goes about alone with her foreigners. As to what happens further, you must apply elsewhere for information. She has picked up half a dozen of the regular Rome fortune-hunters, and she takes them about to people's houses. When she comes to a party, she brings with her a gentleman with a good deal of manner and a wonderful moustache. And where is the mother? I haven't the least idea. They are very dreadful people. Winterborne meditated a moment. They are very ignorant, very innocent only. Depend upon it they are not bad. They are hopelessly vulgar, said Mrs. Costello. Whether or no being hopelessly vulgar is being bad is a question for the metaphysicians. They are bad enough to dislike at any rate, and for this short life that is quite enough. The news that Daisy Miller was surrounded by half a dozen wonderful moustaches checked Winterborne's impulse to go straight away to see her. He had, perhaps, not definitely flattered himself that he had made an ineffacable 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. Winterborne 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 Gregorina. Winterborne found her in a little crimson drawing-room on a third floor. The room was filled with sudden sunshine. He had not been there ten minutes when the servant came in, announcing Madame Miller. This announcement was presently followed by the entrance of little Randolph Miller, who stopped in the middle of the room and stood staring at Winterborne. An instant later his pretty sister crossed the threshold, and then, after a considerable interval, Mrs. Miller slowly advanced. I know you, said Randolph. I'm sure you know a great many things, exclaimed Winterborne, taking him by the hand. How is your education coming on? Daisy was exchanging greetings very prettily with her hostess, but when she heard Winterborne's voice she quickly turned her head. Well, I declare, she said. I told you I should come, you know. Winterborne rejoined, smiling. Well, I didn't believe it, said Miss Daisy. I'm much obliged to you, laughed the young man. You might have come to see me, said Daisy. I arrived only yesterday. I don't believe that, the young girl declared. Winterborne 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 walls. Mrs. Miller turned uneasily in her chair. I told you if I were to bring you, you would say something, she murmured. I told you, Randolph exclaimed. I tell you, sir, he added jacocely, giving Winterborne a thump on the knee. It is bigger, too. Daisy had entered upon a lively conversation with her hostess. Winterborne judged it becoming to address a few words to her mother. I hope you have been well since we parted at Feve, he said. Mrs. Miller now certainly looked at him, at his chin. Not very well, sir, she answered. She's got the dyspepsia, said Randolph. I've got it, too. Father's got it. I've got it 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 shenectady, especially in the winter season. I don't know whether you know we reside at shenectady. I was saying to Daisy that I certainly hadn't found anyone like Dr. Davis, and I didn't believe I should. Oh! At shenectady 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 shenectady he stands at the very top, and there's a great deal of sickness there, too. It affects my sleep. Winterbourne had a good deal of pathological gossip with Dr. Davis's patient, during which Daisy chatted 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 very different. Ah! Wait a little, and you will become very fond of it, said Winterbourne. I hate it worse and worse every day, cried Randolph. You are like the infant Hannibal, said Winterbourne. No, I ain't, Randolph declared, at a venture. You are not much like an infant, said his mother. But we have seen places, she resumed, that I should put a long way before Rome. And in reply to Winterbourne's interrogation. There's Zurich, she concluded. I think Zurich is lovely, and we hadn't heard half so much about it. The best place we've seen is the city of Richmond, said Randolph. He means the ship, his mother explained. We crossed in that ship, Randolph had a good time on the city of Richmond. It's the best place I've seen, the child repeated. Only it was turned the wrong way. Well, we've got to turn the right way sometime, said Mrs. Miller, with a little laugh. Winterbourne expressed the hope that her daughter at least found some gratification in Rome, and she declared that Daisy was quite carried away. It's on account of the society, the society's splendid. She goes round everywhere, she has made a great number of acquaintances. Of course she goes round more than I do. I must say, they have been very sociable. They have taken her right in. And then she knows a great many gentlemen. Ooh, she thinks there's nothing like Rome. Of course, it's a great deal pleasanter for a young lady if she knows plenty of gentlemen. By this time, Daisy had turned her attention again to Winterbourne. I've been telling Mrs. Walker how mean you were, the young girl announced. And what is the evidence you have offered? asked Winterbourne. Rather annoyed at Miss Miller's want of appreciation of the 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 women, the pretty ones, and this gave a largeness to the axiom, were at once the most exacting in the world, and the least endowed with a sense of indebtedness. Why, you were awfully mean at Vevi, said Daisy. You wouldn't do anything, you wouldn't stay there when I asked you. My dearest young lady, cried Winterbourne with eloquence, have I come all the way to Rome to encounter your approaches? Just hear him say that, said Daisy to her hostess, giving a twist to a bow on this lady's dress. Did you ever hear anything so quaint? So quaint, my dear? murmured Mrs. Walker, in the tone of a partisan of Winterbourne. Well, I don't know, said Daisy, fingering Mrs. Walker's ribbons. Mrs. Walker, I want to tell you something. Mother! interposed Randolph, with his rough ends to his words. I tell you, you've got to go. Eugenio will raise... something. I'm not afraid of Eugenio, said Daisy, with a toss of her head. Look here, Mrs. Walker, she went on. You know I'm coming to your party. I'm delighted to hear it. I've got a lovely dress. I'm very sure of that. But I want to ask a favour, permission to bring a friend. I shall be happy to see any of your friends, said Mrs. Walker, turning with a smile to Mrs. Miller. Oh, they are not my friends, answered Daisy's mama, smiling shyly in her own fashion. I never spoke to them. It's an intimate friend of mine, Mr. Giovanelli, said Daisy, without a tremor in her clear little voice, or a shadow on her brilliant little face. Mrs. Walker was silent a moment. She gave a rapid glance at Winterbourne. I shall be glad to see Mr. Giovanelli, she then said. He's an Italian, Daisy pursued, with the prettiest serenity. He's a great friend of mine. He's the handsomest man in the world, except Mr. Winterbourne. He knows plenty of Italians, but he wants to know some Americans. He thinks ever so much of Americans. He's tremendously clever. He's perfectly lovely. It was settled that this brilliant personage should be brought to Mrs. Walker's party. And then Mrs. Miller prepared to take her leave. I guess we'll go back to the hotel, she said. You may go back to the hotel, mother, but I'm going to take a walk, said Daisy. She's going to walk with Mr. Giovanelli, Randolph proclaimed. I'm going to the Pinzio, said Daisy, smiling. Alone, my dear, at this hour, Mrs. Walker asked. The afternoon was drawing to a close. It was the hour for the throng of carriages and of contemplative pedestrians. I don't think it's safe, my dear, said Mrs. Walker. Neither do I, subjoined Mrs. Miller, you'll get the fever as sure as you live. Remember what Dr. Davis told you. Give her some medicine before she goes, said Randolph. The company had risen to its feet. Daisy, still showing her pretty teeth, bent over and kissed her hostess. Mrs. Walker, you were too perfect, she said. I'm not going alone. I'm going to meet a friend. Your friend won't keep you from getting the fever, Mrs. Miller observed. Is it Mr. Giovanelli, asked the hostess. Winterbourne was watching the young girl. At this question his attention quickened. She stood there, smiling and smoothing her bonnet ribbons. She glanced at Winterbourne. Then, while she glanced and smiled, she answered without a shade of hesitation. Mr. Giovanelli, the beautiful Giovanelli. My dear young friend, said Mrs. Walker, taking her hand pleadingly. Don't walk off to the Pinzio at this hour to meet a beautiful Italian. Well, he speaks English, said Mrs. Miller. Gracious me, Daisy exclaimed. I don't do anything improper. There's an easy way to settle it. She continued to glance at Winterbourne. The Pinzio is only a hundred yards distant, and if Mr. Winterbourne were as polite as he pretends, he would offer to walk with me. Winterbourne's politeness hastened to affirm itself, and the young girl gave him gracious leave to accompany her. They passed downstairs before her mother, and at the door Winterbourne perceived Mrs. Miller's carriage drawn up, with the ornamental courier, whose acquaintance he had made at Vevi seated within. Good-bye, Eugenio, cried Daisy. I'm going to take a walk. The distance from the Via Gregorina to the beautiful garden at the other end of the Pinzian Hill is, in fact, rapidly traversed. As the day was splendid, however, and the concourse of vehicles, walkers and loungers numerous, the young Americans found their progress much delayed. This fact was highly agreeable to Winterbourne in spite of his consciousness of his singular situation. The slow-moving, idly-gazing Roman crowd bestowed much attention upon the extremely pretty young foreign lady who was passing through it upon his arm, and he 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 gratified, resolved that he would do no such thing. Why haven't you been to see me? asked Daisy. You can't get out of that. I have had the honour of telling you that I have only just stepped out of the train. You must have stayed in the train a good while after it stopped, cried the young girl with her little laugh. I suppose you were asleep. You have had time to go and see Mrs. Walker. I knew Mrs. Walker, Winterbourne began to explain. I know where you knew her. You knew her at Geneva. She told me so. Well, you knew me at Vevi. 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 pokey. 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're all so charming. The society's extremely select. There are all kinds, English and Germans, and Italians. I think I like the English best. I like their style of conversation. But there are some lovely Americans. I never saw anything so hospitable. There's something rather 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 Pinzian Gardens, Miss Miller began to wonder where Mr. Giovanelli might be. We had better go straight to that place in front, she said, where you look at the view. I certainly shall not help you to find him, Winterbourne declared. Then I shall find him without you, cried Miss Daisy. You certainly won't leave me, cried Winterbourne. She burst into her little laugh. Are you afraid you'll get lost, or run over? But there's Giovanelli leaning against that tree. He's staring at the women in the carriages. Did you ever see anything so cool? Winterbourne perceived at some distance a little man, standing with folded arms, nursing his cane. He had a handsome face, an artfully poised hat, a glass in one eye, and a nose-gay in his buttonhole. Winterbourne looked at him a moment, and then said, Do you mean to speak to that man? Do I mean to speak to him? Why, you don't suppose I mean to communicate by signs? Pray understand, then, said Winterbourne, that I intend to remain with you. Daisy stopped and looked at him, without a sign of troubled consciousness in her face, with nothing but the presence of her charming eyes and her happy dimples. Well, she's a cool one, thought the young man. I don't like the way you say that, said Daisy. It's too imperious. I beg your pardon if I say it wrong. The main point is to give you an idea of my meaning. The young girl looked at him more gravely, but with eyes that were prettier than ever. I have never allowed a gentleman to dictate to me, or to interfere with anything I do. I think you have made a mistake, said Winterbourne. You should sometimes listen to a gentleman, the right one. Daisy began to laugh again. I do nothing but listen to gentlemen, she exclaimed. Tell me if Mr. Giovanelli is the right one. The gentleman with a nose-gay in his bosom had now perceived our two friends, and was approaching the young girl with obsequious rapidity. He bowed to Winterbourne, as well as to the latter's companion. He had a brilliant smile, an intelligent eye. Winterbourne thought him not a bad-looking fellow, but he nevertheless said to Daisy, No, he's not the right one. Daisy evidently had a natural talent for performing introductions. She mentioned the name of each of her companions to the other. She strolled along with one of them on each side of her. Mr. Giovanelli, who spoke English very cleverly, Winterbourne afterwards learned that he had practiced the idiom upon a great many American heiresses, addressed her a great deal of very polite nonsense. He was extremely obeying, 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 far-stretching intentions. Winterbourne flattered himself that he had taken his measure. He is not a gentleman, said the young American. He is only a clever imitation of one. He is a music master, or a penny aligner, or a third-rate artist. Damn his good looks! Mr. Giovanelli had, certainly, a very pretty face. But Winterbourne felt a superior indignation at his own lovely fellow-countrywoman's not knowing the difference between a spurious gentleman and a real one. Giovanelli chattered and gested 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 low-lived 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, enjoining 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 well-conducted 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. End of Section 4 Section 5 of Daisy Miller. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Lucy Burgoyne. Daisy Miller. A study in two parts by Henry James. Section 5. 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 Winterborne, to the prettiest features of Mr. Gia Vanalli when a carriage that had detached itself from the revolving train drew up beside the path. At the same moment, Winterborne perceived that his friend, Mrs. Walker, the lady whose house he had lately left, was seated in the vehicle and was beckoning to him. Leaving Miss Miller's side, he hastened to obey her summons. Mrs. Walker was flushed. She wore an excited air. It is really too dreadful, she said. That girl must not do this sort of thing. She must not walk here with you two men. Fifty people have noticed her. Winterborne raised his eyebrows. I think it's a pity to make too much fuss about it. It's a pity to let the girl ruin herself. She is very innocent, said Winterborne. She's very crazy, cried Mrs. Walker. Did you ever see anything so in the soul as her mother? After you had all left me just now, I could not sit still for thinking of it. It seemed too pitiful, not even to attempt to save her. I ordered the carriage and put on my bonnet and came here as quickly as possible. Thank heaven I have found you. What do you propose to do with us? Ask Winterborne smiling. To ask her to get in, to drive her about here for an hour, so that the world may see she is not running absolutely wild, and then to take her safely home. I don't think it's a very happy thought, said Winterborne, but you can try. Mrs. Walker tried. The young man went in pursuit of Miss Miller, had simply nodded and smiled at his interlocutor in the carriage, and had gone her way with her companion. Daisy, unlearning that Mrs. Walker wished to speak to her, retraced her steps with the perfect good grace, and with Mr. Gia Vanalli at her side. She declared that she was delighted to have a chance to present this gentleman to Mrs. Walker. She immediately achieved the introduction and declared that she had never in her life seen anything so lovely as Mrs. Walker's carriage rug. I am glad you admire it, said this lady, smiling spitely. Will you get in and let me put it over you? Oh, no, thank you, said Daisy. I shall admire it much more, as I see you driving round with it. Do get in and drive with me, said Mrs. Walker. That would be charming, but it's so enchanting just as I am, and Daisy gave a brilliant glance at the gentleman on either side of her. It may be enchanting, dear child, but it is not the custom here. Urge Mrs. Walker, leaning forward in her Victoria with her hands devoutly clasped. Well, it ought to be, then, said Daisy. If I didn't walk, I should expire. You should walk with your mother, dear, cried the lady, from Geneva, losing patience. With my mother, dear, exclaimed the young girl. Winter-born saw that she centered interference. My mother never walked ten steps in her life, and then, you know, she added with a laugh. I am more than five years old. You are old enough to be more reasonable. You are old enough, dear Miss Miller, to be talked about. Daisy looked at Mrs. Walker, smiling intensely, talked about, what do you mean? Come into my carriage, and I will tell you. Daisy turned her quickened glance again from one of the gentlemen beside her to the other. Mr. Gia Vanally was bowing to and fro, rubbing down his gloves and laughing very agreeably. Winter-born thought at a most unpleasant scene, I don't think I want to know what you mean, said Daisy presently. I don't think I should like it. Winter-born 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 demanded. Gracious exclaimed Daisy. She looked again at Mr. Gia Vanally. Then she turned to Winter-born. There was a little pink flush in her cheek. She was tremendously pretty. Does Mr. Winter-born think? She asked slowly, smiling, throwing back her head and glancing at him from head to foot. That, to save my reputation, I ought to get into the carriage. Winter-born culled. 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 Winter-born, 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. Gia Vanally, who made a triumphantly obsequious salute, she turned away. Mrs. Walker sat looking after her, and there were tears in Mrs. Walker's eyes. Get in here, sir, she said to Winter-born, indicating the place beside her. The young man answered that he felt bound to accompany Miss Miller, whereupon Mrs. Walker declared that if he refused her this favour, she would never speak to him again. She was evidently in earnest. Winter-born 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 endeavoured to dissuade her. But she only shook his hand, hardly looking at him, while Mr. Gia Vanally bade him farewell with the two emphatic flourish of the hat. Winter-born was not in the best possible humour as he took his seat in Mrs. Walker's Victoria. That was not clever of you, he said candidly, while the vehicle mingled again with the throng of carriages. In such a case, his companion answered, I don't wish to be clever. I wish to be earnest. Well, your earnestness has only offended her and put her off. It has happened very well, said Mrs. Walker. If she is so perfectly determined to compromise herself, the sooner one knows it the better. I can act accordingly. I suspect she meant no harm. Winter-born rejoined. So I thought a month ago, but she has been going too far. What has she been doing? Everything that is not done here, flirting with any man she could pick up, sitting in corners with mysterious Italians, dancing all evening with the same partners, receiving visits at eleven o'clock at night. Her mother goes away when visitors come. But her brother, said Winter-born laughing, sits up till midnight. 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 Winter-born angrily. The poor girl's only fault, he presently added, is that she is very uncultivated. She is naturally indelicate, Mrs. Walker declared. Take that example this morning. How long had you known her at Vivi? A couple of days. Fancy then, her making it a personal matter that you should have left the place. Winter-born was silent for some moments. Then he said, I suspect, Mrs. Walker, that you and I have lived too long at Geneva. And he added a request that she should inform him with what particular design she had made him enter her carriage. I wish to beg you to cease your relations with Miss Miller, not to flirt with her, to give her no further opportunity to expose herself, to let her alone, in short. I'm afraid I can't do that, said Winter-born. I like her extremely. All the more reason that you shouldn't help her to make a scandal. There shall be nothing scandalous in my attentions to her. There certainly will be in the way she takes them, but I have said what I had in my conscience, Mrs. Walker pursued. If you wish to rejoin the young lady, I will put you down. Here, by the way, you have a chance. The carriage was traversing that part of the Pincian garden 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. Winter-born 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. Winter-born 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 flat top pine clusters of the village Borghese. Then Gia Vanelli seated himself, slowly 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 where upon 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 winter-born. This young man lingered a moment. Then he began to walk. But he walked, not toward the couple with the parasol, toward the residence of his aunt, Mrs. Costello. 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. The lady and her daughter, however, were not at home and on the next day after repeating his visit, winter-born again had the misfortune not to find them. Mrs. Walker's party took place on the evening of the third day and inspired the prodigy of his last interview with the hostess. Winter-born 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 winter-born arrived, Daisy Miller was not there. But in a few moments he saw her mother come in alone, very shyly and roofily. Mrs. Miller's hair above her exposed-looking temples was more frizzled than ever. As she approached, Mrs. Walker, winter-born, also drew near. You see, I've come all alone, said poor Mrs. Miller. I'm so frightened, I don't know what to do. It's the first time I've ever been to a party alone, especially in this country. I wanted to bring Randolph or Eugenio or someone, but Daisy just pushed me off by myself. I ain't used to going round alone. And does not your daughter intend to favour us with her society? Demanded Mrs. Walker impressively. Well, Daisy's all dressed, but she's got a friend of hers there, that gentleman, the Italian, that she wanted to bring. They've got going at the piano. It seems as if they couldn't leave off. Mr. G. Van Halle sings splendidly. And she's got a friend of hers there, that gentleman, the Italian, that Mrs. Halle sings splendidly. But I guess they'll come before very long. Concluded Mrs. Miller hopefully. I'm sorry she should come in that way, said Mrs. Walker. Well, I told her that there was no use in her getting dressed before dinner if she was going to wait three hours. Responded Daisy's mama. I didn't see the use of her putting on such a dress yet round with Mr. G. Van Halle. This is most horrible, said Mrs. Walker, turning away and addressing herself to Winterbourne. Al, so fish, it's a revenge for my having ventured to remonstrate with her. When she comes I shall not speak to her. Daisy came after 11 o'clock, but she was not on such an occasion, a young lady to wait when she was spoken to. She ruttled forward in radiant loveliness, smiling and chattering, carrying a large bouquet and attended by Mr. G. Van Halle. 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. G. Van Halle practice some things before he came. You know he sings beautifully, and I want you to ask him to sing. This is Mr. G. Van Halle. 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 allableness, looking now at her hostess and now around the room while she gave a series of little pats round her shoulders to the edge of her dress. Is there anyone I know? She asked. I think everyone knows you, said Mrs. Walker, and she gave a very cursory greeting to Mr. G. Van Halle. This gentleman bore himself gallantly. He smiled and bowed and showed his white teeth. He curled his moustaches and rolled his eyes and performed all the proper functions at a handsome Italian at an evening party. He sung very prettily half a dozen songs, though Mrs. Walker afterward declared that she had been quite unable to find out who asked him. It was apparently not Daisy who had given him his orders. Daisy sat at a distance from the piano and though she had publicly, as it were, professed a high admiration for his singing, talk not inaudibly while it was going on. It's a pity these rooms are so small. We can't dance, she said to Winterboard and seen him five minutes before. I am not sorry we can't dance. Winterboard answered, I don't dance. Of course you don't dance. You're too stiff, said Miss Daisy. I hope you enjoyed your drive with Mrs. Walker. No, I didn't enjoy it. I preferred walking with you. We peered 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. Gia Vanelli and under the pretext that it was proper? People have different ideas. It would have been most unkind. He had been talking about that walk for ten days. He should not have talked about it at all, said Winterboard. He would never have proposed a young lady of this country to walk about the streets with him. About the streets cried Daisy with a pretty stare. Where then would he have proposed 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 pokey time of it. So far as I can learn I don't see why I should change my habits for them. I am afraid your habits are those of a flute, said Winterboard gravely. Of course they are, she cried, giving him her little smiling stare again. I'm a fearful, frightful flute. 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 are a very nice girl but I wish you would flirt with me. And me only, said Winterboard. Ah, thank you, thank you very much. You are the last man I should think of flirting with. As I have had the pleasure of informing you, you are too stiff. You say that too often, said Winterboard. Daisy gave a delighted laugh that I could have the sweet hope of making you angry. I should say it again. Don't do that. When I am angry, I'm stiffer than ever. But if you won't flirt with me, do cease at least to flirt with your friend at the piano. They don't understand that sort of thing here. I thought they understood nothing else, exclaimed Daisy. Not in young, unmarried women. It seems to me much more proper in young, unmarried women than in old, married ones. Daisy declared. Well, said Winterboard, 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. Gia Vanelli and without your mother, gracious, poor mother, interpose Daisy. Though you may be flirting, Mr. Gia Vanelli is not. He means something else. He isn't preaching at any rate, said Daisy, with a vivacity. And if you want very much to know, we are neither of us flirting. We are two good friends for that. We are very intimate friends. Ah, rejoined Winterboard, 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. Gia Vanelli, at least, she said, giving her interlocutor a single glance, never says such disagreeable things to me. Winterboard was bewildered. He stood staring. Mr. Gia Vanelli 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, with his ornamental smile.