more perplexed, for this inconsequent smile made nothing clear,

though it seemed to prove, indeed, that she had a sweetness and
softness that reverted instinctively" target="_blank" title="ad.本能地">instinctively to the pardon of offenses.

"It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea,"
she said with her little tormenting manner.

"I have offered you advice," Winterbourne rejoined.
"I prefer weak tea!" cried Daisy, and she went off with the

brilliant Giovanelli. She sat with him in the adjoining room,
in the embrasure of the window, for the rest of the evening.

There was an interesting performance at the piano, but neither
of these young people gave heed to it. When Daisy came to take

leave of Mrs. Walker, this lady conscientiously repaired
the weakness of which she had been guilty at the moment of

the young girl's arrival. She turned her back straight upon
Miss Miller and left her to depart with what grace she might.

Winterbourne was standing near the door; he saw it all.
Daisy turned very pale and looked at her mother, but Mrs. Miller

was humblyunconscious of any violation of the usual social forms.
She appeared, indeed, to have felt an incongruous impulse

to draw attention to her own strikingobservance of them.
"Good night, Mrs. Walker," she said; "we've had a beautiful evening.

You see, if I let Daisy come to parties without me,
I don't want her to go away without me." Daisy turned away,

looking with a pale, grave face at the circle near the door;
Winterbourne saw that, for the first moment, she was

too much shocked and puzzled even for indignation.
He on his side was greatly touched.

"That was very cruel," he said to Mrs. Walker.
"She never enters my drawing room again!" replied his hostess.

Since Winterbourne was not to meet her in Mrs. Walker's drawing room,
he went as often as possible to Mrs. Miller's hotel. The ladies

were rarely at home, but when he found them, the devoted Giovanelli
was always present. Very often the brilliant little Roman was in the

drawing room with Daisy alone, Mrs. Miller being apparentlyconstantly
of the opinion that discretion is the better part of surveillance.

Winterbourne noted, at first with surprise, that Daisy on these
occasions was never embarrassed or annoyed by his own entrance;

but he very presently began to feel that she had no more surprises for him;
the unexpected in her behavior was the only thing to expect. She showed

no displeasure at her tete-a-tete with Giovanelli being interrupted;
she could chatter as freshly and freely with two gentlemen as with one;

there was always, in her conversation, the same odd mixture of audacity
and puerility. Winterbourne remarked to himself that if she was

seriously interested in Giovanelli, it was very singular that she should
not take more trouble to preserve the sanctity of their interviews;

and he liked her the more for her innocent-looking indifference
and her apparently inexhaustible good humor. He could hardly have

said why, but she seemed to him a girl who would never be jealous.
At the risk of exciting a somewhat derisive smile on the reader's part,

I may affirm that with regard to the women who had hitherto interested him,
it very often seemed to Winterbourne among the possibilities that, given

certain contingencies, he should be afraid--literally afraid--of these ladies;
he had a pleasant sense that he should never be afraid of Daisy Miller.

It must be added that this sentiment was not altogetherflattering to Daisy;
it was part of his conviction, or rather of his apprehension, that she

would prove a very light young person.
But she was evidently very much interested in Giovanelli.

She looked at him whenever he spoke; she was perpetually telling him
to do this and to do that; she was constantly "chaffing" and abusing him.

She appeared completely to have forgotten that Winterbourne had said anything
to displease her at Mrs. Walker's little party. One Sunday afternoon,

having gone to St. Peter's with his aunt, Winterbourne perceived Daisy
strolling about the great church in company with the inevitable Giovanelli.

Presently he pointed out the young girl and her cavalier to Mrs. Costello.
This lady looked at them a moment through her eyeglass, and then she said:

"That's what makes you so pensive in these days, eh?"
"I had not the least idea I was pensive," said the young man.

"You are very much preoccupied; you are thinking of something."
"And what is it," he asked, "that you accuse me of thinking of?"

"Of that young lady's--Miss Baker's, Miss Chandler's--what's her name?--
Miss Miller's intrigue with that little barber's block."

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

"That's their folly," said Mrs. Costello; "it's not their merit."
"No," rejoined Winterbourne, with something of that pensiveness

to which his aunt had alluded. "I don't believe that there
is anything to be called an intrigue."

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

"They are certainly very intimate," said Winterbourne.
Mrs. Costello inspected the young couple again with her optical instrument.

"He is very handsome. One easily sees how it is. She thinks
him the most elegant man in the world, the finest gentleman.

She has never seen anything like him; he is better, even, than the courier.
It was the courier probably who introduced him; and if he succeeds in marrying

the young lady, the courier will come in for a magnificent commission."
"I don't believe she thinks of marrying him," said Winterbourne,

"and I don't believe he hopes to marry her."
"You may be very sure she thinks of nothing. She goes on from

day to day, from hour to hour, as they did in the Golden Age.
I can imagine nothing more vulgar. And at the same time,"

added Mrs. Costello, "depend upon it that she may tell you
any moment that she is 'engaged.'"

"I think that is more than Giovanelli expects," said Winterbourne.
"Who is Giovanelli?"

"The little Italian. I have asked questions about him and
learned something. He is apparently a perfectly respectable

little man. I believe he is, in a small way, a cavaliere
avvocato. But he doesn't move in what are called the first circles.

I think it is really not absolutely impossible that the courier
introduced him. He is evidentlyimmensely charmed with Miss Miller.

If she thinks him the finest gentleman in the world, he, on his side,
has never found himself in personal contact with such splendor,

such opulence, such expensiveness as this young lady's. And
then she must seem to him wonderfully pretty and interesting.

I rather doubt that he dreams of marrying her.
That must appear to him too impossible a piece of luck.

He has nothing but his handsome face to offer, and there is
a substantial Mr. Miller in that mysterious land of dollars.

Giovanelli knows that he hasn't a title to offer.
If he were only a count or a marchese! He must wonder

at his luck, at the way they have taken him up."
"He accounts for it by his handsome face and thinks Miss

Miller a young lady qui se passe ses fantaisies!"
said Mrs. Costello.

"It is very true," Winterbourne pursued, "that Daisy and her mamma
have not yet risen to that stage of--what shall I call it?--of culture

at which the idea of catching a count or a marchese begins.
I believe that they are intellectually incapable of that conception."

"Ah! but the avvocato can't believe it," said Mrs. Costello.
Of the observation excited by Daisy's "intrigue," Winterbourne

gathered that day at St. Peter's sufficient evidence. A dozen
of the American colonists in Rome came to talk with Mrs. Costello,

who sat on a little portable stool at the base of one of the
great pilasters. The vesper service was going forward in splendid

chants and organ tones in the adjacent choir, and meanwhile,
between Mrs. Costello and her friends, there was a great deal

said about poor little Miss Miller's going really "too far."
Winterbourne was not pleased with what he heard, but when,

coming out upon the great steps of the church, he saw Daisy,
who had emerged before him, get into an open cab with her

accomplice and roll away through the cynical streets of Rome,
he could not deny to himself that she was going very far indeed.

He felt very sorry for her--not exactly that he believed that
she had completely lost her head, but because it was painful