the top of one of those great mounds of ruin that are embanked
with mossy marble and paved with mental" target="_blank" title="a.纪念碑的；不朽的">monumental inscriptions.

It seemed to him that Rome had never been so lovely as just then.
He stood, looking off at the enchanting harmony of line and color

that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors,
and feeling the freshness of the year and the antiquity

of the place reaffirm themselves in mysterious interfusion.
It seemed to him also that Daisy had never looked so pretty,

but this had been an observation of his whenever he met her.
Giovanelli was at her side, and Giovanelli, too, wore an aspect

of even unwonted brilliancy.
"Well," said Daisy, "I should think you would be lonesome!"

"Lonesome?" asked Winterbourne.
"You are always going round by yourself. Can't you get anyone

to walk with you?"
"I am not so fortunate," said Winterbourne, "as your companion."

Giovanelli, from the first, had treated Winterbourne with
distinguished politeness. He listened with a deferential air

to his remarks; he laughed punctiliously at his pleasantries;
he seemed disposed to testify to his belief that Winterbourne

was a superior young man. He carried himself in no degree
like a jealous wooer; he had obviously a great deal of tact;

he had no objection to your expecting a little humility of him.
It even seemed to Winterbourne at times that Giovanelli would

find a certain mentalrelief in being able to have a private
understanding with him--to say to him, as an intelligent man,

that, bless you, HE knew how extraordinary was this
young lady, and didn't flatter himself with delusive--

or at least TOO delusive--hopes of matrimony and dollars.
On this occasion he strolled away from his companion to pluck

a sprig of almondblossom, which he carefully arranged
in his buttonhole.

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

And she nodded at her attendant.
"Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne.

"Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously.
"But I don't believe it. They are only pretending to be shocked.

They don't really care a straw what I do. Besides, I don't
go round so much."

"I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably."
Daisy looked at him a moment. "How disagreeably?"

"Haven't you noticed anything?" Winterbourne asked.
"I have noticed you. But I noticed you were as stiff as an umbrella

the first time I saw you."
"You will find I am not so stiff as several others,"

said Winterbourne, smiling.
"How shall I find it?"

"By going to see the others."
"What will they do to me?"

"They will give you the cold shoulder. Do you know what that means?"
Daisy was looking at him intently; she began to color.

"Do you mean as Mrs. Walker did the other night?"
"Exactly!" said Winterbourne.

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

"I shouldn't think you would let people be so unkind!" she said.
"How can I help it?" he asked.

"I should think you would say something."
"I do say something"; and he paused a moment. "I say that your mother

tells me that she believes you are engaged."
"Well, she does," said Daisy very simply.

Winterbourne began to laugh. "And does Randolph believe it?" he asked.
"I guess Randolph doesn't believe anything," said Daisy.

Randolph's skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity,
and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them.

Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again to her countryman.
"Since you have mentioned it," she said, "I AM engaged."

* * * Winterbourne looked at her; he had stopped laughing.
"You don't believe!" she added.

He was silent a moment; and then, "Yes, I believe it," he said.
"Oh, no, you don't!" she answered. "Well, then--I am not!"

The young girl and her cicerone were on their way to the gate
of the enclosure, so that Winterbourne, who had but lately entered,

presently took leave of them. A week afterward he went to dine
at a beautiful villa on the Caelian Hill, and, on arriving,

dismissed his hired vehicle. The evening was charming, and he
promised himself the satisfaction of walking home beneath the Arch

of Constantine and past the vaguely lighted monuments of the Forum.
There was a waning moon in the sky, and her radiance was not brilliant,

but she was veiled in a thin cloud curtain which seemed to diffuse
and equalize it. When, on his return from the villa (it was eleven

o'clock), Winterbourne approached the dusky circle of the Colosseum,
it recurred to him, as a lover of the picturesque, that the interior,

in the pale moonshine, would be well worth a glance. He turned aside
and walked to one of the empty arches, near which, as he observed,

an open carriage--one of the little Roman streetcabs--was stationed.
Then he passed in, among the cavernous shadows of the great structure,

and emerged upon the clear and silent arena. The place had never
seemed to him more impressive. One-half of the gigantic circus

was in deep shade, the other was sleeping in the luminous dusk.
As he stood there he began to murmur Byron's famous lines,

out of "Manfred," but before he had finished his quotation
he remembered that if nocturnal meditations in the Colosseum are

recommended by the poets, they are deprecated by the doctors.
The historicatmosphere was there, certainly; but the historicatmosphere,

scientifically considered, was no better than a villainous miasma.
Winterbourne walked to the middle of the arena, to take a more

general glance, intending thereafter to make a hasty retreat.
The great cross in the center was covered with shadow;

it was only as he drew near it that he made it out distinctly.
Then he saw that two persons were stationed upon the low steps which

formed its base. One of these was a woman, seated; her companion
was standing in front of her.

Presently the sound of the woman's voice came to him distinctly
in the warm night air. "Well, he looks at us as one of the old

lions or tigers may have looked at the Christian martyrs!"
These were the words he heard, in the familiar accent of

Miss Daisy Miller.
"Let us hope he is not very hungry," responded the ingenious Giovanelli.

"He will have to take me first; you will serve for dessert!"
Winterbourne stopped, with a sort of horror, and, it must be added,

with a sort of relief. It was as if a sudden illumination had been
flashed upon the ambiguity of Daisy's behavior, and the riddle had

become easy to read. She was a young lady whom a gentleman need
no longer be at pains to respect. He stood there, looking at her--

looking at her companion and not reflecting that though he saw
them vaguely, he himself must have been more brightly visible.

He felt angry with himself that he had bothered so much about
the right way of regarding Miss Daisy Miller. Then, as he was going

to advance again, he checked himself, not from the fear that he was doing
her injustice, but from a sense of the danger of appearing unbecomingly

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

he heard Daisy speak again.
"Why, it was Mr. Winterbourne! He saw me, and he cuts me!"