Daisy Miller | Page 9

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 to 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 toward 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
parlor. 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 guess he doesn't sleep much," Daisy rejoined.
"I wish he would!" said her mother. "It seems as if he couldn't."
"I think he's real tiresome," Daisy pursued.

Then, for some moments, there was silence. "Well, Daisy Miller," said
the elder lady, presently, "I shouldn't think you'd want to talk against
your own brother!"
"Well, he IS tiresome, Mother," said Daisy, quite without the asperity
of a retort.
"He's only nine," urged Mrs. Miller.
"Well, he wouldn't go to that castle," said the young girl. "I'm going
there with Mr. Winterbourne."
To this announcement, very placidly made, Daisy's mamma offered no
response. Winterbourne took for granted that she deeply disapproved of
the projected excursion; but he said to himself that she was a simple,
easily managed person, and that a few deferential protestations would
take the edge from her displeasure. "Yes," he began; "your daughter has
kindly allowed me