Daisy Miller | Page 8

on tiptoe. He found her that evening in the
garden, wandering about in the warm starlight like an indolent sylph,
and swinging to and fro the largest fan he had ever beheld. It was ten
o'clock. He had dined with his aunt, had been sitting with her since
dinner, and had just taken leave of her till the morrow. Miss Daisy
Miller seemed very glad to see him; she declared it was the longest
evening she had ever passed.
"Have you been all alone?" he asked.
"I have been walking round with mother. But mother gets tired walking
round," she answered.
"Has she gone to bed?"
"No; she doesn't like to go to bed," 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; she wore
white puffs; she spoke to no one, and she never dined at the table d'hote.
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 everyone--or they don't
speak to us. I suppose it's about the same thing. Anyway, 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. 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