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"You should walk with your mother, dear," cried the lady from Geneva, losing patience.
"With my mother dear!" exclaimed the young girl. Winterbourne saw that she scented interference. "My mother
never walked ten steps in her life. And then, you know," she added with a laugh, "I am more than five years old."
"You are old enough to be more reasonable. You are old enough, dear Miss Miller, to be talked about."
Daisy looked at Mrs. Walker, smiling intensely. "Talked about? What do you mean?"
"Come into my carriage, and I will tell you."
Daisy turned her quickened glance again from one of the gentlemen beside her to the other. Mr. Giovanelli was
bowing to and fro, rubbing down his gloves and laughing very agreeably; Winterbourne thought it a most unpleasant
scene. "I don't think I want to know what you mean," said Daisy presently. "I don't think I should like it."
Winterbourne wished that Mrs. Walker would tuck in her carriage rug and drive away, but this lady did not enjoy
being defied, as she afterward told him. "Should you prefer being thought a very reckless girl?" she demanded.
"Gracious!" exclaimed Daisy. She looked again at Mr. Giovanelli, then she turned to Winterbourne. There was a little
pink flush in her cheek; she was tremendously pretty. "Does Mr. Winterbourne think," she asked slowly, smiling,
throwing back her head, and glancing at him from head to foot, "that, to save my reputation, I ought to get into the
carriage?"
Winterbourne colored; for an instant he hesitated greatly. It seemed so strange to hear her speak that way of her
"reputation." But he himself, in fact, must speak in accordance with gallantry. The finest gallantry, here, was simply
to tell her the truth; and the truth, for Winterbourne, as the few indications I have been able to give have made him
known to the reader, was that Daisy Miller should take Mrs. Walker's advice. He looked at her exquisite prettiness,
and then he said, very gently, "I think you should get into the carriage."
Daisy gave a violent laugh. "I never heard anything so stiff! If this is improper, Mrs. Walker," she pursued, "then I am
all improper, and you must give me up. Goodbye; I hope you'll have a lovely ride!" and, with Mr. Giovanelli, who
made a triumphantly obsequious salute, she turned away.
Mrs. Walker sat looking after her, and there were tears in Mrs. Walker's eyes. "Get in here, sir," she said to
Winterbourne, indicating the place beside her. The young man answered that he felt bound to accompany Miss
Miller, whereupon Mrs. Walker declared that if he refused her this favor she would never speak to him again. She
was evidently in earnest. Winterbourne overtook Daisy and her companion, and, offering the young girl his hand,
told her that Mrs. Walker had made an imperious claim upon his society. He expected that in answer she would say
something rather free, something to commit herself still further to that "recklessness" from which Mrs. Walker had
so charitably endeavored to dissuade her. But she only shook his hand, hardly looking at him, while Mr. Giovanelli
bade him farewell with a too emphatic flourish of the hat.
Winterbourne was not in the best possible humor as he took his seat in Mrs. Walker's victoria. "That was not clever
of you," he said candidly, while the vehicle mingled again with the throng of carriages.
"In such a case," his companion answered, "I don't wish to be clever; I wish to be earnest!"
"Well, your earnestness has only offended her and put her off."
"It has happened very well," said Mrs. Walker. "If she is so perfectly determined to compromise herself, the sooner
one knows it the better; one can act accordingly."
"I suspect she meant no harm," Winterbourne rejoined.
"So I thought a month ago. But she has been going too far."
"What has she been doing?"
"Everything that is not done here. Flirting with any man she could pick up; sitting in corners with mysterious Italians;
dancing all the evening with the same partners; receiving visits at eleven o'clock at night. Her mother goes away
when visitors come."
"But her brother," said Winterbourne, laughing, "sits up till midnight."
"He must be edified by what he sees. I'm told that at their hotel everyone is talking about her, and that a smile goes
round among all the servants when a gentleman comes and asks for Miss Miller."
"The servants be hanged!" said Winterbourne angrily. "The poor girl's only fault," he presently added, "is that she is
very uncultivated."
"She is naturally indelicate," Mrs. Walker declared.
"Take that example this morning. How long had you known her at Vevey?"
"A couple of days."
"Fancy, then, her making it a personal matter that you should have left the place!"
Winterbourne was silent for some moments; then he said, "I suspect, Mrs. Walker, that you and I have lived too long
at Geneva!" And he added a request that she should inform him with what particular design she had made him enter
her carriage.
"I wished to beg you to cease your relations with Miss Miller-- not to flirt with her--to give her no further opportunity
to expose herself--to let her alone, in short."
"I'm afraid I can't do that," said Winterbourne. "I like her extremely."
"All the more reason that you shouldn't help her to make a scandal."
"There shall be nothing scandalous in my attentions to her."
"There certainly will be in the way she takes them. But I have said what I had on my conscience," Mrs. Walker
pursued. "If you wish to rejoin the young lady I will put you down. Here, by the way, you have a chance."
The carriage was traversing that part of the Pincian Garden that overhangs the wall of Rome and overlooks the
beautiful Villa Borghese. It is bordered by a large parapet, near which there are several seats. One of the seats at a
distance was occupied by a gentleman and a lady, toward whom Mrs. Walker gave a toss of her head. At the same
moment these persons rose and walked toward the parapet. Winterbourne had asked the coachman to stop; he
now descended from the carriage. His companion looked at him a moment in silence; then, while he raised his hat,
she drove majestically away. Winterbourne stood there; he had turned his eyes toward Daisy and her cavalier. They
evidently saw no one; they were too deeply occupied with each other. When they reached the low garden wall, they
stood a moment looking off at the great flat-topped pine clusters of the Villa Borghese; then Giovanelli seated
himself, familiarly, upon the broad ledge of the wall. The western sun in the opposite sky sent out a brilliant shaft
through a couple of cloud bars, whereupon Daisy's companion took her parasol out of her hands and opened it. She
came a little nearer, and he held the parasol over her; then, still holding it, he let it rest upon her shoulder, so that
both of their heads were hidden from Winterbourne. This young man lingered a moment, then he began to walk. But
he walked--not toward the couple with the parasol; toward the residence of his aunt, Mrs. Costello.
He flattered himself on the following day that there was no smiling among the servants when he, at least, asked for
Mrs. Miller at her hotel. This lady and her daughter, however, were not at home; and on the next day after,
repeating his visit, Winterbourne again had the misfortune not to find them. Mrs. Walker's party took place on the
evening of the third day, and, in spite of the frigidity of his last interview with the hostess, Winterbourne was among
the guests. Mrs. Walker was one of those American ladies who, while residing abroad, make a point, in their own
phrase, of studying European society, and she had on this occasion collected several specimens of her diversely born
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