than this; she began to prattle about her own affairs.

"We've got splendid rooms at the hotel; Eugenio says they're
the best rooms in Rome. We are going to stay all winter,

if we don't die of the fever; and I guess we'll stay then.
It's a great deal nicer than I thought; I thought it would

be fearfully quiet; I was sure it would be awfully poky.
I was sure we should be going round all the time with one of those

dreadful old men that explain about the pictures and things.
But we only had about a week of that, and now I'm enjoying myself.

I know ever so many people, and they are all so charming.
The society's extremely" target="_blank" title="ad.极端地；非常地">extremely select. There are all kinds--English,

and Germans, and Italians. I think I like the English best.
I like their style of conversation. But there are some

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

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

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

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

"where you look at the view."
"I certainly shall not help you to find him," Winterbourne declared.

"Then I shall find him without you," 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 nosegay 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 the nosegay in his bosom had now perceived our two friends,
and was approaching the young girl with obsequious rapidity. He bowed to

Winterbourne as well as to the latter's companion; he had a brilliant smile,
an intelligent eye; Winterbourne thought him not a bad-looking fellow.

But he nevertheless said to Daisy, "No, he's not the right one."
Daisy evidently had a natural talent for performing introductions;

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

who spoke English very cleverly--Winterbourne afterward learned
that he had practiced the idiom upon a great many American heiresses--

addressed her a great deal of very politenonsense; he was extremely" target="_blank" title="ad.极端地；非常地">extremely
urbane, and the young American, who said nothing, reflected upon

that profundity of Italian cleverness which enables people to appear
more gracious in proportion as they are more acutely disappointed.

Giovanelli, of course, had counted upon something more intimate;
he had not bargained for a party of three. But he kept his

temper in a manner which suggested far-stretching intentions.
Winterbourne flattered himself that he had taken his measure.

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

or a penny-a-liner, or a third-rate artist. D__n his good looks!"
Mr. Giovanelli had certainly a very pretty face; but Winterbourne felt

a superior indignation at his own lovely fellow countrywoman's not
knowing the difference between a spurious gentleman and a real one.

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

"Nevertheless," Winterbourne said to himself, "a nice girl ought to know!"
And then he came back to the question whether this was, in fact,

a nice girl. Would a nice girl, even allowing for her being a little
American flirt, make a rendezvous with a presumably 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,

in joining her amoroso, should not appear more impatient
of his own company, and he was vexed because of his inclination.

It was impossible to regard her as a perfectly well-conducted
young lady; she was wanting in a certain indispensable delicacy.

It would thereforesimplify matters greatly to be able to treat
her as the object of one of those sentiments which are called by

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

to think more lightly of her would make her much less perplexing.
But Daisy, on this occasion, continued to present herself as an

inscrutable combination of audacity and innocence.
She had been walking some quarter of an hour, attended by her

two cavaliers, and responding in a tone of very childish gaiety,
as it seemed to Winterbourne, to the pretty speeches

of Mr. Giovanelli, when a carriage that had detached
itself from the revolving train drew up beside the path.

At the same moment Winterbourne perceived that his friend
Mrs. Walker--the lady whose house he had lately left--

was seated in the vehicle and was beckoning to him.
Leaving Miss Miller's side, he hastened to obey her summons.

Mrs. Walker was flushed; she wore an excited air.
"It is really too dreadful," she said. "That girl must not do

this sort of thing. She must not walk here with you two men.
Fifty people have noticed her."

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

"It's a pity to let the girl ruin herself!"
"She is very innocent," said Winterbourne.

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

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

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

"What do you propose to do with us?" asked Winterbourne, smiling.
"To ask her to get in, to drive her about here for half an hour,

so that the world may see she is not runningabsolutely wild,
and then to take her safely home."

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