LITMIR.BIZ

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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 Winterbourne.

      “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 Winterbourne 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 Winterbourne’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 comme il faut[11]; she wore white puffs; she spoke to no one, and she never dined at the table d’hôte[12]. Every two days she had a headache. “I think that’s a lovely description, headache and 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 every one – or they don’t speak to us. I suppose it’s about the same thing. Any way, I shall be ever so glad to know your aunt.”

      Winterbourne was embarrassed. “She would be most happy,” he said; “but I am 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.

      Winterbourne 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.

      Winterbourne 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[13]. It’s her wretched health.”

      The young girl walked on a few steps, laughing still. “You 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 exclusive!” she said. Winterbourne 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, rude woman, and to declare that they 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?” Winterbourne asked.

      “Well!” cried Miss Daisy Miller, with a laugh, “I guess I know my own mother. And when she has got on 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 am afraid your mother doesn’t see you,” said Winterbourne. “Or perhaps,” he added – thinking, with Miss Miller, the joke permissible – “perhaps she feels guilty about your shawl.”

      “Oh, it’s a 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 Winterbourne, “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 Winterbourne, “you must know my name.” And he 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 upon them. “Mother!” said the young girl, in a tone of decision. Upon this the elder lady turned round. “Mr. Winterbourne,” 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 Winterbourne that, with her commonness, she had a singularly delicate grace.

      Her mother was a small, spare, light person, with a wandering eye, a very exiguous 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 Winterbourne 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 towards 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. Winterbourne,” 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 Winterbourne; “I have the pleasure of knowing your son.”

      Randolph’s mamma 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?” Winterbourne asked.

      “He wouldn’t go to bed at all. I guess he sat up all night – in the public parlour. 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?” Winterbourne demanded.

      “I

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