Mother thought of getting him one, to travel round with us. There was a lady told her of a very good teacher; an American lady perhaps you know her Mrs. Sanders. I think she came from Boston. She told her of this teacher, and we thought of getting him to travel round with us. But Randolph said he didnt want a teacher travelling round with us. He said he wouldnt have lessons when he was in the cars. And we are in the cars about half the time. There was an English lady we met in the cars I think her name was Miss Featherstone; perhaps you know her. She wanted to know why I didnt give Randolph lessons give him instruction, she called it. I guess he could give me more instruction than I could give him. Hes very smart.
Yes, said Winterbourne; he seems very smart.
Mothers going to get a teacher for him as soon as we get to Italy. Can you get good teachers in Italy?
Very good, I should think, said Winterbourne.
Or else shes going to find some school. He ought to learn some more. Hes only nine. Hes going to college. And in this way Miss Miller continued to converse upon the affairs of her family, and upon other topics. She sat there with her extremely pretty hands, ornamented with very brilliant rings, folded in her lap, and with her pretty eyes now resting upon those of Winterbourne, now wandering over the garden, the people who passed by, and the beautiful view. She talked to Winterbourne as if she had known him a long time. He found it very pleasant. It was many years since he had heard a young girl talk so much. It might have been said of this unknown young lady, who had come and sat down beside him upon a bench, that she chattered. She was very quiet, she sat in a charming tranquil attitude; but her lips and her eyes were constantly moving. She had a soft, slender, agreeable voice, and her tone was decidedly sociable. She gave Winterbourne a history of her movements and intentions, and those of her mother and brother, in Europe, and enumerated, in particular, the various hotels at which they had stopped. That English lady in the cars, she said Miss Featherstone asked me if we didnt all live in hotels in America. I told her I had never been in so many hotels in my life as since I came to Europe. I have never seen so many its nothing but hotels. But Miss Miller did not make this remark with a querulous accent; she appeared to be in the best humour[4] with everything. She declared that the hotels were very good, when once you got used to their ways, and that Europe was perfectly sweet. She was not disappointed not a bit. Perhaps it was because she had heard so much about it before. She had ever so many intimate friends that had been there ever so many times. And then she had had ever so many dresses and things from Paris. Whenever she put on a Paris dress she felt as if she were in Europe.
It was a kind of a wishing-cap, said Winterbourne.
Yes, said Miss Miller, without examining this analogy; it always made me wish I was here. But I neednt have done that for dresses. I am sure they send all the pretty ones to America; you see the most frightful things here. The only thing I dont like, she proceeded, is the society. There isnt any society; or, if there is, I dont know where it keeps itself. Do you? I suppose there is some society somewhere, but I havent seen anything of it. Im very fond of society, and I have always had a great deal of it. I dont mean only in Schenectady, but in New York. I used to go to New York every winter. In New York I had lots of society. Last winter I had seventeen dinners given me; and three of them were by gentlemen, added Daisy Miller. I have more friends in New York than in Schenectady more gentlemen friends; and more young lady friends too, she resumed in a moment. She paused again for an instant; she was looking at Winterbourne with all her prettiness in her lively eyes and in her light, slightly monotonous smile. I have always had, she said, a great deal of gentlemens society.
Poor Winterbourne was amused, perplexed, and decidedly charmed. He had never yet heard a young girl express herself in just this fashion; never, at least, save in cases where to say such things seemed a kind of demonstrative evidence of a certain laxity of deportment. And yet was he to accuse Miss Daisy Miller of actual or potential inconduite[5], as they said at Geneva? He felt that he had lived at Geneva so long that he had lost a good deal; he had become dishabituated to the American tone. Never, indeed, since he had grown old enough to appreciate things, had he encountered a young American girl of so pronounced a type as this. Certainly she was very charming; but how deucedly sociable! Was she simply a pretty girl from New York State were they all like that, the pretty girls who had a good deal of gentlemens society? Or was she also a designing, an audacious, an unscrupulous young person? Winterbourne had lost his instinct in this matter, and his reason could not help him. Miss Daisy Miller looked extremely innocent. Some people had told him that, after all, American girls were exceedingly innocent; and others had told him that, after all, they were not. He was inclined to think Miss Daisy Miller was a flirt a pretty American flirt. He had never, as yet, had any relations with young ladies of this category. He had known, here in Europe, two or three women persons older than Miss Daisy Miller, and provided, for respectabilitys sake, with husbands who were great coquettes dangerous, terrible women, with whom ones relations were liable to take a serious turn. But this young girl was not a coquette in that sense; she was very unsophisticated; she was only a pretty American flirt. Winterbourne was almost grateful for having found the formula that applied to Miss Daisy Miller. He leaned back in his seat; he remarked to himself that she had the most charming nose he had ever seen; he wondered what were the regular conditions and limitations of ones intercourse with a pretty American flirt. It presently became apparent that he was on the way to learn.
Have you been to that old castle? asked the young girl, pointing with her parasol to the far-gleaming walls of the Château de Chillon.
Yes, formerly, more than once, said Winterbourne. You too, I suppose, have seen it?
No; we havent been there. I want to go there dreadfully. Of course I mean to go there. I wouldnt go away from here without having seen that old castle.
Its a very pretty excursion, said Winterbourne, and very easy to make. You can drive, you know, or you can go by the little steamer.
You can go in the cars, said Miss Miller.
Yes; you can go in the cars, Winterbourne assented.
Our courier says they take you right up to the castle, the young girl continued. We were going last week; but my mother gave out. She suffers dreadfully from dyspepsia. She said she couldnt go. Randolph wouldnt go either; he says he doesnt think much of old castles. But I guess well go this week, if we can get Randolph.
Your brother is not interested in ancient monuments? Winterbourne inquired, smiling.
He says he dont care much about old castles. Hes only nine. He wants to stay at the hotel. Mothers afraid to leave him alone, and the courier wont stay with him; so we havent been to many places. But it will be too bad if we dont go up there. And Miss Miller pointed again at the Château de Chillon.
I should think it might be arranged, said Winterbourne. Couldnt you get some one to stay for the afternoon with Randolph?