Daisy Miller | Page 3

to know where you got that pole," she said.
"I bought it," responded Randolph.
"You don't mean to say you're going to take it to Italy?"
"Yes, I am going to take it to Italy," the child declared.
The young girl glanced over the front of her dress and smoothed out a

knot or two of ribbon. Then she rested her eyes upon the prospect again.
"Well, I guess you had better leave it somewhere," she said after a
moment.
"Are you going to Italy?" Winterbourne inquired in a tone of great
respect.
The young lady glanced at him again. "Yes, sir," she replied. And she
said nothing more.
"Are you--a-- going over the Simplon?" Winterbourne pursued, a little
embarrassed.
"I don't know," she said. "I suppose it's some mountain. Randolph,
what mountain are we going over?"
"Going where?" the child demanded.
"To Italy," Winterbourne explained.
"I don't know," said Randolph. "I don't want to go to Italy. I want to go
to America."
"Oh, Italy is a beautiful place!" rejoined the young man.
"Can you get candy there?" Randolph loudly inquired.
"I hope not," said his sister. "I guess you have had enough candy, and
mother thinks so too."
"I haven't had any for ever so long--for a hundred weeks!" cried the boy,
still jumping about.
The young lady inspected her flounces and smoothed her ribbons again;
and Winterbourne presently risked an observation upon the beauty of
the view. He was ceasing to be embarrassed, for he had begun to
perceive that she was not in the least embarrassed herself. There had
not been the slightest alteration in her charming complexion; she was
evidently neither offended nor flattered. If she looked another way

when he spoke to her, and seemed not particularly to hear him, this was
simply her habit, her manner. Yet, as he talked a little more and pointed
out some of the objects of interest in the view, with which she appeared
quite unacquainted, she gradually gave him more of the benefit of her
glance; and then he saw that this glance was perfectly direct and
unshrinking. It was not, however, what would have been called an
immodest glance, for the young girl's eyes were singularly honest and
fresh. They were wonderfully pretty eyes; and, indeed, Winterbourne
had not seen for a long time anything prettier than his fair
countrywoman's various features--her complexion, her nose, her ears,
her teeth. He had a great relish for feminine beauty; he was addicted to
observing and analyzing it; and as regards this young lady's face he
made several observations. It was not at all insipid, but it was not
exactly expressive; and though it was eminently delicate, Winterbourne
mentally accused it--very forgivingly--of a want of finish. He thought it
very possible that Master Randolph's sister was a coquette; he was sure
she had a spirit of her own; but in her bright, sweet, superficial little
visage there was no mockery, no irony. Before long it became obvious
that she was much disposed toward conversation. She told him that
they were going to Rome for the winter--she and her mother and
Randolph. She asked him if he was a "real American"; she shouldn't
have taken him for one; he seemed more like a German--this was said
after a little hesitation-- especially when he spoke. Winterbourne,
laughing, answered that he had met Germans who spoke like
Americans, but that he had not, so far as he remembered, met an
American who spoke like a German. Then he asked her if she should
not be more comfortable in sitting upon the bench which he had just
quitted. She answered that she liked standing up and walking about; but
she presently sat down. She told him she was from New York State--"if
you know where that is." Winterbourne learned more about her by
catching hold of her small, slippery brother and making him stand a
few minutes by his side.
"Tell me your name, my boy," he said.
"Randolph C. Miller," said the boy sharply. "And I'll tell you her name";
and he leveled his alpenstock at his sister.

"You had better wait till you are asked!" said this young lady calmly.
"I should like very much to know your name," said Winterbourne.
"Her name is Daisy Miller!" cried the child. "But that isn't her real
name; that isn't her name on her cards."
"It's a pity you haven't got one of my cards!" said Miss Miller.
"Her real name is Annie P. Miller," the boy went on.
"Ask him HIS name," said his sister, indicating Winterbourne.
But on this point Randolph seemed perfectly indifferent; he continued
to supply information with regard to his own family. "My father's name
is Ezra B. Miller," he announced. "My father ain't in Europe; my
father's in a better place