Daisy Miller HTML version
Winterbourne, who had returned to Geneva the day after his excursion to Chillon, went
to Rome toward the end of January. His aunt had been established there for several
weeks, and he had received a couple of letters from her. "Those people you were so
devoted to last summer at Vevey have turned up here, courier and all," she wrote.
"They seem to have made several acquaintances, but the courier continues to be the
most intime. The young lady, however, is also very intimate with some third-rate Italians,
with whom she rackets about in a way that makes much talk. Bring me that pretty novel
of Cherbuliez's--Paule Mere-- and don't come later than the 23rd."
In the natural course of events, Winterbourne, on arriving in Rome, would presently
have ascertained Mrs. Miller's address at the American banker's and have gone to pay
his compliments to Miss Daisy. "After what happened at Vevey, I think I may certainly
call upon them," he said to Mrs. Costello.
"If, after what happens--at Vevey and everywhere--you desire to keep up the
acquaintance, you are very welcome. Of course a man may know everyone. Men are
welcome to the privilege!"
"Pray what is it that happens--here, for instance?" Winterbourne demanded.
"The girl goes about alone with her foreigners. As to what happens further, you must
apply elsewhere for information. She has picked up half a dozen of the regular Roman
fortune hunters, and she takes them about to people's houses. When she comes to a
party she brings with her a gentleman with a good deal of manner and a wonderful
"And where is the mother?"
"I haven't the least idea. They are very dreadful people."
Winterbourne meditated a moment. "They are very ignorant-- very innocent only.
Depend upon it they are not bad."
"They are hopelessly vulgar," said Mrs. Costello. "Whether or no being hopelessly
vulgar is being 'bad' is a question for the metaphysicians. They are bad enough to
dislike, at any rate; and for this short life that is quite enough."
The news that Daisy Miller was surrounded by half a dozen wonderful mustaches
checked Winterbourne's impulse to go straightway to see her. He had, perhaps, not
definitely flattered himself that he had made an ineffaceable impression upon her heart,
but he was annoyed at hearing of a state of affairs so little in harmony with an image
that had lately flitted in and out of his own meditations; the image of a very pretty girl