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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 girlā€™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 countrywomanā€™s various featuresā€”her complexion, her nose, her ears, her teeth. He had a great relish for feminine beauty; he was addicted to observing and analyzing it; and as regards this young ladyā€™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 itā€”very forgivinglyā€”of a want of finish. He thought it very possible that Master Randolphā€™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 winterā€”she and her mother and Randolph. She asked him if he was a ā€œreal Americanā€; she shouldnā€™t have taken him for one; he seemed more like a Germanā€”this was said after a little hesitationā€”especially when he spoke. Winterbourne, laughing, answered that he had met Germans who spoke like Americans, but that he had not, so far as he remembered, met an American who spoke like a German. Then he asked her if she should not be more comfortable in sitting upon the bench which he had just quitted. She answered that she liked standing up and walking about; but she presently sat down. She told him she was from New York Stateā€”ā€œif you know where that is.ā€ Winterbourne learned more about her by catching hold of her small, slippery brother and making him stand a few minutes by his side.

ā€œTell me your name, my boy,ā€ he said.

ā€œRandolph C. Miller,ā€ said the boy sharply. ā€œAnd Iā€™ll tell you her name;ā€ and he leveled his alpenstock at his sister.

ā€œYou had better wait till you are asked!ā€ said this young lady calmly.

ā€œI should like very much to know your name,ā€ said Winterbourne.

ā€œHer name is Daisy Miller!ā€ cried the child. ā€œBut that isnā€™t her real name; that isnā€™t her name on her cards.ā€

ā€œItā€™s a pity you havenā€™t got one of my cards!ā€ said Miss Miller.

ā€œHer real name is Annie P. Miller,ā€ the boy went on.

ā€œAsk him HIS name,ā€ said his sister, indicating Winterbourne.

But on this point Randolph seemed perfectly indifferent; he continued to supply information with regard to his own family. ā€œMy fatherā€™s name is Ezra B. Miller,ā€ he announced. ā€œMy father ainā€™t in Europe; my fatherā€™s in a better place than Europe.ā€

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, ā€œMy fatherā€™s in Schenectady. Heā€™s got a big business. My fatherā€™s rich, you bet!ā€

ā€œWell!ā€ ejaculated Miss Miller, lowering her parasol and looking at the embroidered border. Winterbourne presently released the child, who departed, dragging his alpenstock along the path. ā€œHe doesnā€™t like Europe,ā€ said the young girl. ā€œHe wants to go back.ā€

ā€œTo Schenectady, you mean?ā€

ā€œYes; he wants to go right home. He hasnā€™t got any boys here. There is one boy here, but he always goes round with a teacher; they wonā€™t let him play.ā€

ā€œAnd your brother hasnā€™t any teacher?ā€ Winterbourne inquired.

ā€œMother thought of getting him one, to travel round with us. There was a lady told her of a very good teacher; an American ladyā€”perhaps you know herā€”Mrs. Sanders. I think she came from Boston. She told her of this teacher, and we thought of getting him to travel round with us. But Randolph said he didnā€™t want a teacher traveling round with us. He said he wouldnā€™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 carsā€”I think her name was Miss Featherstone; perhaps you know her. She wanted to know why I didnā€™t give Randolph lessonsā€”give him ā€˜instruction,ā€™ she called it. I guess he could give me more instruction than I could give him. Heā€™s very smart.ā€

ā€œYes,ā€ said Winterbourne; ā€œhe seems very smart.ā€

ā€œMotherā€™s going to get a teacher for him as soon as we get to Italy. Can you get good teachers in Italy?ā€

ā€œVery good, I should think,ā€ said Winterbourne.

ā€œOr else sheā€™s going to find some school. He ought to learn some more. Heā€™s only nine. Heā€™s going to college.ā€ And in this way Miss Miller continued to converse upon the affairs of her family and upon other topics. She sat there with her extremely pretty hands, ornamented with very brilliant rings, folded in her lap, and with her pretty eyes now resting upon those of Winterbourne, now wandering over the garden, the people who passed by, and the beautiful view. She talked to Winterbourne as if she had known him a long time. He found it very pleasant. It was many years since he had heard a young girl talk so much. It might have been said of this unknown young lady, who had come and sat down beside him upon a bench, that she chattered. She was very quiet; she sat in a charming, tranquil attitude; but her lips and her eyes were constantly moving. She had a soft, slender, agreeable voice, and her tone was decidedly sociable. She gave Winterbourne a history of her movements and intentions and those of her mother and brother, in Europe, and enumerated, in particular, the various hotels at which they had stopped. ā€œThat English lady in the cars,ā€ she saidā€”ā€œMiss Featherstoneā€”asked me if we didnā€™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 manyā€”itā€™s nothing but hotels.ā€ But Miss Miller did not make this remark with a querulous accent; she appeared to be in the best humor with everything. She declared that the hotels were very good, when once you got used to their ways, and that Europe was perfectly sweet. She was not disappointedā€”not a bit. Perhaps it was because she had heard so much about it before. She had ever so many intimate friends that had been there ever so many times. And then she had had ever so many dresses and things from Paris. Whenever she put on a Paris dress she felt as if she were in Europe.

ā€œIt was a kind of a wishing cap,ā€ said Winterbourne.

ā€œYes,ā€ said Miss Miller without examining this analogy; ā€œit always made me wish I was here. But I neednā€™t have done that for dresses. I am sure they send all the pretty ones to America; you see the most frightful things here. The only thing I donā€™t like,ā€ she proceeded, ā€œis the society. There isnā€™t any society; or, if there is, I donā€™t know where it keeps itself. Do you? I suppose there is some society somewhere, but I havenā€™t seen anything of it. Iā€™m very fond of society, and I have always had a great deal of it. I donā€™t mean only in Schenectady, but in New York. I used to go to New York every winter. In New York I had lots of society. Last winter I had seventeen dinners given me; and three of them were by gentlemen,ā€ added Daisy Miller. ā€œI have more friends in New York than in Schenectadyā€”more gentleman friends; and more young lady friends too,ā€ she resumed in a moment. She paused again for an instant; she was looking at Winterbourne with all her prettiness in her lively eyes and in her light, slightly monotonous smile. ā€œI have always had,ā€ she said, ā€œa great deal of gentlemenā€™s society.ā€

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

ā€œHave you been to that old castle?ā€ asked the young girl, pointing with her parasol to the far-gleaming walls of the Chateau de Chillon.

ā€œYes, formerly, more than once,ā€ said Winterbourne. ā€œYou too, I suppose, have seen it?ā€

ā€œNo; we havenā€™t been there. I want to go there dreadfully. Of course I mean to go there. I wouldnā€™t go away from here without having seen that old castle.ā€

ā€œItā€™s a very pretty excursion,ā€ said Winterbourne, ā€œand very easy to make. You can drive, you know, or you can go by the little steamer.ā€

ā€œYou can go in the cars,ā€ said Miss Miller.

ā€œYes; you can go in the cars,ā€ Winterbourne assented.

ā€œOur courier says they take you right up to the castle,ā€ the young girl continued. ā€œWe were going last week, but my mother gave out. She suffers dreadfully from dyspepsia. She said she couldnā€™t go. Randolph wouldnā€™t go either; he says he doesnā€™t think much of old castles. But I guess weā€™ll go this week, if we can get Randolph.ā€

ā€œYour brother is not interested in ancient monuments?ā€ Winterbourne inquired, smiling.

ā€œHe says he donā€™t care much about old castles. Heā€™s only nine. He wants to stay at the hotel. Motherā€™s afraid to leave him alone, and the courier wonā€™t stay with him; so we havenā€™t been to many places. But it will be too bad if we donā€™t go up there.ā€ And Miss Miller pointed again at the Chateau de Chillon.

ā€œI should think it might be arranged,ā€ said Winterbourne. ā€œCouldnā€™t you get some one to stay for the afternoon with Randolph?ā€

Miss Miller looked at him a moment, and then, very placidly, ā€œI wish YOU would stay with him!ā€ she said.

Winterbourne hesitated a moment. ā€œI should much rather go to Chillon with you.ā€

ā€œWith me?ā€ asked the young girl with the same placidity.

She didnā€™t rise, blushing, as a young girl at Geneva would have done; and yet Winterbourne, conscious that he had

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