Daisy Miller: A Comedy. In Three Acts

ACT II.

A beautiful afternoon in the gardens of the Pincian Hill in Rome. A view of St. Peter’s in the distance.

SCENE I. WINTERBOURNE, MADAME DE KATKOFF, meeting from opposite sides. He stands before her a moment, and kisses her hand.

WINTERBOURNE. When, at your hotel just now, they told me you had gone out, I was pretty sure you had come here.

MME. DE K. I always come here as soon as I arrive in Rome, for the sake of that view. It’s an old friend of mine.

WINTERBOURNE. Have you no old friends but that, and was n’t it also — a little — for the sake of meeting one or two of them ? We all come here, you know.

MME. DE K. One or two of them ? You don’t mean two — you mean one ! I know you all come here, and that’s why I have arrived early, before the crowd and the music.

WINTERBOURNE. That’s what I was counting on. I know your tastes. I wanted to find you alone.

MME. DE K. Being alone with you is n’t one of my tastes ! If I had known I should meet you, I think I should n’t have left my carriage. WINTERBOURNE. If it ’s there, at hand, you might invite me to get into it .

MME. DE K. I have sent it away for half an hour, while I stretch myself a little. I have been sitting down for a week — in railway trains.

WINTERBOURNE. You can’t escape from me, then !

MME. DE K. Don’t begin that way, or you ’ll disappoint me. You speak as if you had received none of my letters.

WINTERBOURNE. And you speak as if you had written me a dozen ! I received three little notes.

MME. DE k. They were short, but they were clear.

WINTERBOURNE. Oh, very clear indeed ! “ You ’re an awful nuisance,

and I wish never to hear of you again.” That was about the gist of them.

MME. DE K. “Unless you promise not to persecute me, I won’t come to Rome.” That’s more how I should express it. And you did promise.

WINTERBOURNE. I promised to try and hate you, for that seemed to be what you wished to bring me to ! And I have been waiting for you these three weeks, as a man waits for his worst enemy.

MME. DE K. I should be your worst enemy, indeed, if I listened to you — if I allowed you to mingle your fresh, independent life with my own embarrassed and disillusioned one. If you have been here three weeks, you ought to have found some profitable occupation.

WINTERBOURNE. You speak as if I were looking out for a job! My principal occupation has been waiting for you.

MME. DE K. It must have made you pleasant company to your friends.

WINTERBOURNE. My friends are only my aunt and the young lady who is with her — a very good girl, but painfully prim. I have been devoted to them, because I said to myself that after you came —

MME. DE K. You would n’t have possession of your senses ? So it appears. On the same principle, I hope you have shown some attention to the little girl who was at Vevey, whom I saw you in such a fair way to be intimate with.

WINTERBOURNE, after a silence. What do you know about her?

MME. DE K. Nothing but that we are again at the same hotel. A former servant of mine, a very unprincipled fellow, is now in her mother’s employ, and he was the first person I met as I left my rooms to-day. I imagine from this that the young lady is not far off.

WINTERBOURNE. Not far off from him. I wish she were farther !

MME. DE K. She struck me last summer as remarkably attractive.

WINTERBOURNE. She’s exactly what she was last summer — only more so !

MME. DE K. She must be quite enchanting, then.

WINTERBOURNE. DO you wish me to fall in love with her ?

MME. DE K. It would give me particular pleasure. I would go so far as to be the confidant of your passion.

WINTERBOURNE. I have no passion to confide. She ’s a little American flirt.

MME. DE K., aside. It seems to me there is a certain passion in that! WINTERBOURNE. She’s foolish, frivolous, futile. She is making herself terribly talked about.

MME. DE K. She looked to me very innocent— with those eyes !

WINTERBOURNE. Oh yes, I made a great deal of those eyes — they have the most charming lashes. But they look at too many people.

MME. DE K. Should you like them to fix themselves on you? You’re rather difficult to please. The young lady with your aunt is too grave, and this poor little person is too gay ! You had better find some one who ’s between the two.

WINTERBOURNE. You are between the two, and you won’t listen to me.

MME. DE K. I think I understand your country people better than you do. I have learned a good deal about them from my observation of yourself.

WINTERBOURNE. That must have made you very fond of them !

MME. DE K. It has made me feel very kindly toward them, as you see from my interest in those young ladies. Don’t judge them by what they seem. They are probably just the opposite, for that is precisely the case with yourself. Most people think you very cold, but I have discovered the truth. You are like one of those tall German stoves, which present to the eye a surface of smooth white porcelain, without the slightest symptom of fuel or of flame. Nothing at first could seem less glowing ; but after you have been in the room with it for half an hour you feel that the temperature is rising — and you want to open a window !

WINTERBOURNE. A tall German stove — that’s a very graceful comparison.

MME. DE K. I ’m sure your grave young lady is very gay.

WINTERBOURNE. It does n’t matter: she has got a young man of her own.

MME. DE K. The young man who was always with them ? If you are going to be put off by a rival, I have nothing to say.

WINTERBOURNE. He’s not a rival of mine; he’s only a rival of my aunt’s. She wants me to marry Miss Durant, but Miss Durant prefers the gallant Reverdy.

MME. DE K. That simplifies it.

WINTERBOURNE. Not so very much ; because the gallant Reverdy shows a predilection for Miss Daisy Miller.

MME. DE K. Ah, then he is your rival!

WINTERBOURNE. There are so many others that he does n’t count. She has at least a dozen admirers, and she knocks about Rome with all of them. She once told me that she was very fond of gentlemen’s society ; but unfortunately, they are not all gentlemen.

MME. DE K. So much the better chance for you !

WINTERBOURNE. She does n’t know, she can’t distinguish. She is incredibly light.

MME. DE K. It seems to me that you express yourself with a certain bitterness.

WINTERBOURNE. I’m not in the least in love with her, if that’s what you mean. But simply as an outsider, as a spectator, as an American, I can’t bear to see a nice girl — if she is a nice girl — expose herself to the most odious misconception. That is, if she is a nice girl!

MME. DE K. By my little system, she ought to be very nice. If she seems very wild, depend upon it she is very tame.

WINTERBOURNE. She has produced a fearful amount of scandal.

MME. DE K. That proves she has nothing to hide. The wicked ones are not found out!

WINTERBOURNE. She has nothing to hide but her mother, whom she conceals so effectually that no mortal eye has beheld her. Miss Daisy goes to parties alone ! When I say alone, I mean that she is usually accompanied by a foreigner with a waxed moustache and a great deal of manner. She’s too nice for a foreigner !

MME. DE K., smiling. As a Russian, I ’m greatly obliged to you !

WINTERBOURNE. This isn’t a Russian. He’s a Roman — the Cavaliere Giovanelli.

MME. DE K. You spoke of a dozen, and now you have settled down to one.

WINTERBOURNE. There were a dozen at first, but she picked them over and selected. She has made a mistake, because the man she has chosen is an adventurer.

MME. DE K. An adventurer ?

WINTERBOURNE. Oh, a very plausible one. He is very good looking, very polite ; he sings little songs at parties. He comes of a respectable family, but he has squandered his small patrimony, and he has no means of subsistence but his personal charms, which he has been hoping for the last ten years will endear him to some susceptible American heiress — whom he flatters himself he has found at last!

MME. DE K. You ought to advise her — to put her on her guard.

WINTERBOURNE. Oh, she’s not serious ; she is only amusing herself.

MME. DE K. Try and make her serious. That’s a mission for an honest man !

WINTERBOURNE, after a moment. It’s so odd to hear you defending her! It only puzzles me the more.

MME. DE K. You ought to understand your countrywomen better.

WINTERBOURNE. My countrywomen?

MME. DE K. I don’t mean me: I mean Miss Daisy Miller.

WINTERBOURNE. It seems very stupid, I confess; but I’ve lived so long in foreign parts, among people of different manners. I mean, however, to settle the question to-day and to make up my mind. I shall meet Miss Daisy at four o’clock. I have promised to go to Mrs. Walker’s.

MME. DE K. And pray who is Mrs. Walker ?

WINTERBOURNE. The wife of the American consul — a very good-natured woman, who has a passion for afternoon tea. She took up Miss Daisy when they came; she used to call her the little Flower of the West. But now she’s holding the little flower in her fingertips at arm’s length, trying to decide to let it drop.

MME. DE K. Poor little flower ! It must be four o’clock now.

WINTERBOURNE, looking at his watch. You ’re in a great hurry to get rid of me! Mrs. Walker’s is close at hand, just beyond the Spanish Steps. I shall have time to stroll round the Pincian with you.

MME. DE K., shaking her head. I have had strolling enough. I shall wait for my carriage.

WINTERBOURNE. Let me at least come and see you this evening.

MME. DE K. I should be delighted, but I’m going to the opera.

WINTERBOURNE. Already? The first night you 're here ?

MME. DE K. It’s not the first; it’s the second. I’m very fond of music.

WINTERBOURNE. It’s always bad in Italy.

MME. DE K. I have made provision against that in the person of the Russian ambassador, whom I have asked to come into my box.

WINTERBOURNE. Ah, with ambassadors I stand no chance.

MME. DE K., smiling. You 're the greatest diplomatist of all! Good-by for the present. (She turns away. Winterbourne looks after her a moment.)

WINTERBOURNE. You decide more easily than Mrs. Walker: you have dropped me!

MME. DE K. Ah, but you ’re not a flower ! ( Winterbourne looks at her an

instant longer ; then, with a little pas-sionate switch of his stick, he walks off. Just as he disappears, Eugenio comes in at the back.) And now I shall have a quiet evening with a book!

SCENE II. MADAME DE KATKOFF, EUGENIO, who enters hat in hand, with a bow.

EUGENIO. It’s the second time today that I have had the pleasure of meeting Madame.

MME. DE KATKOFF. I should like very much to believe it would be the last!

EUGENIO, twirling his hat. That, perhaps, is more than I can promise. We will call it the last but one; for my purpose in approaching Madame is to demand an interview — a serious interview ! Seeing Madame, at a distance, in conversation with a gentleman, I waited till the gentleman had retired ; for I must do Madame the justice to admit that, with Madame, the gentlemen do usually, at last, retire !

MME. DE K. It’s a misfortune to me, since they leave me exposed !

EUGENIO. Madame is not exposed; Madame is protected. So long as I have an eye on Madame, I can answer for it that she will suffer no injury.

MME. DE K. YOU protect me as the butcher protects the lamb! I suppose you have come to name your price.

EUGENIO. Madame goes straight to the point! I have come to name my price, but not to ask for money.

MME. DE K. It’s very kind of you to recognize that I have not money enough.

EUGENIO. Madame has money enough, but the talents of Madame are still greater than her wealth. It is with the aid of these talents that I shall invite Madame to render me a service — a difficult, delicate service, but so valuable that it will release Madame from further obligations.

MME. DE K., ironical. It’s delightful to think of being released ! I suppose the service is to recommend you as a domestic. That would be difficult, certainly.

EUGENIO. TOO difficult — for Madame ! No ; it is simply, as I say, to grant me an interview, when I can explain. Be so good as to name an hour when I can wait upon you.

MME. DE K. In my apartments ? I would rather not see you there. Explain to me here.

EUGENIO. It ’s a little delicate for a public place. Besides, I have another appointment here.

MME. DE K. You do a great business ! If you mean that I am to wait upon you, we may as well drop negotiations.

EUGENIO. Let us compromise. My appointment will end in a quarter of an hour. If at that time Madame is still on the Pincian —

MME. DE K. You would like me to sit upon a bench till you are ready to attend to me ?

EUGENIO. It would have the merit of settling the matter at once, without more suspense for Madame.

MME. DE K., thoughtfully, aside. That would be a merit, certainly; and I’m curious about the exercise he wishes to offer my talents! (Aloud.) I shall stroll about here till my carriage comes; if you wish to take advantage of that —

EUGENIO. TO take advantage is exactly what I wish! And as this particular spot is exceptionally quiet I shall look for Madame here.

MME. DE K., as she strolls away. How unspeakably odious !

EUGENIO, alone a moment, looking after her. She shall bend till she breaks ! The delay will have the merit, too, of making me sure of Giovanelli — if he only keeps the tryst! I must n’t throw away a card on her before I’ve won the game of him. But he’s such a deuced fine gentleman that there’s no playing fair! (Seeing Giovanelli, who comes in at the left.) He is up to time, though. {Bowing.) Signor Cavaliere! SCENE III. EUGENIO, GIOVANELLI.

GIOVANELLI, very elegant, with flowers in his button-hole ; cautious, looking round him. You might have proposed meeting in some less conspicuous spot!

EUGENIO. In the Coliseum, at midnight ? My dear sir, we should be much more compromised if we were discovered there!

GIOVANELLI. Oh, if you count upon our being discovered ! . . .

EUGENIO. There is nothing so unnatural in our having a little conversation. One should never be ashamed of an accomplice !

GIOVANELLI, with a grimace, disgusted. Don’t speak of accomplices, as if we were concocting a crime !

EUGENIO. What makes it a work of merit is my conviction that you are a perfect gentleman. If it had n’t been for that, I never should have presented you to my family.

GIOVANELLI. Your family ? You speak as if, in marrying the girl, I should become your brother-in-law.

EUGENIO. We shall certainly be united by a very peculiar tie!

GIOVANELLI. United — united ? I don’t know about that! After my marriage, I shall travel without a courier. (Smiling.) It will be less expensive!

EUGENIO. In the event you speak of, I myself hardly expect to remain in the ranks. I have seen too many campaigns : I shall retire on my pension. You look as if you did n’t understand me.

GIOVANELLI. Perfectly. You expect the good Mrs. Miller to make you comfortable for the rest of your days.

EUGENIO. What I expect of the good Mrs. Miller is one thing; what I expect of you is another : and on that point we had better be perfectly clear. If was to insure perfect clearness that I proposed this little conference, which you refused to allow to take place either in your own lodgings or in some comfortable café. Oh, I know you had your reasons ! You don’t exhibit your little interior ; and though I know a good deal about you, I don’t know where you live. It does n’t matter, I don’t want to know : it’s enough for me that I can always find you here, amid the music and the flowers. But I can’t exactly make out why you would n’t meet me at a café. I would gladly have paid for a glass of beer.

GIOVANELLI. It was just your beer I was afraid of! I never touch the beastly stuff.

EUGENIO. Ah, if you drink nothing but champagne, no wonder you are looking for an heiress ! But before I help you to one, let me give you a word of advice. Make the best of me, if you wish me to make the best of you. I was determined to do that when I presented you to the two most amiable women in the world.

GIOVANELLI. I must protest against your theory that you presented me. I met Mrs. Miller at a party, as any gentleman might have done.

EUGENIO. You met her at a party, precisely ; but unless I wish it, Mrs. Miller does n’t go to a party ! I let you know she was to be there, and I advised you how to proceed. For the last three weeks I have done nothing but arrange little accidents, little surprises, little occasions, of which I will do you the justice to say that you have taken excellent advantage. But the time has come when I must remind you that I have not done all this from mere admiration of your distinguished appearance. I wish your success to be my success 1

GIOVANELLI, pleased, with a certain simplicity. I am glad to hear you talk about my success !

EUGENIO. Oh, there’s a good deal to be said about it! Have you ever been to the circus ?

GIOVANELLI. I don’t see what that has to do with it!

EUGENIO. You ’ve seen the bareback rider turn a somersault through the paper hoops ? It’s a very pretty feat, and it brings him great applause; but half the effect depends upon the poor devil — whom no one notices — who is perched upon the edge of the ring. If he did n’t hold the hoop with a great deal of skill, the bareback rider would simply come down on his nose. You turn your little somersaults, Signor Cavaliere, and my young lady claps her hands ; but all the while I'm holding the hoop !

GIOVANELLI. If I’m not mistaken, that office, at the circus, is usually performed by the clown.

EUGENIO. Take very good care, or you ’ll have a fall !

GIOVANELLI. I suppose you want to be paid for your trouble.

EUGENIO. The point is n’t that I want to be paid: that goes without saying! But I want to be paid handsomely.

GIOVANELLI. What do you call handsomely ?

EUGENIO. A commission proportionate to the fortune of the young lady. I know something about that. I have in my pocket (slapping his side) the letter of credit of the Signora. She lets me carry it — for safety’s sake !

GIOVANELLI. Poor Signora! It’s a strange game we ’re playing !

EUGENIO, looking at him a moment. Oh, if you doubt of the purity of your motives, you have only to say so. You swore to me that you adored my young lady.

GIOVANELLI. She’s an angel, and I worship the ground she treads on. That makes me wonder whether I could n’t get on without you.

EUGENIO, dryly. Try it and see. I ’ve only to say the word, and Mrs. Miller will start to-morrow for the north.

GIOVANELLI. And if you don’t say the word, that’s another thing you want to be paid for! It mounts up very fast.

EUGENIO. It mounts up to fifty thousand francs, to be handed to me six months after you are married.

GIOVANELLI. Fifty thousand francs? EUGENIO. The family exchequer will never miss them. Besides, I give you six months. You sign a little note, “for value received.”

GIOVANELLI. And if the marriage — if the marriage —

EUGENIO. If the marriage comes to grief, I burn up the note.

GIOVANELLI. How can I be sure of that ?

EUGENIO. By having already perceived that I ’m not an idiot. If you don’t marry, you can’t pay : I need no one to tell me that. But I intend you shall marry.

GIOVANELLI, satirical. It’s uncommonly good of you ! After all, I have n’t a squint!

EUGENIO. I picked you out for your good looks ; and you ’re so tremendously fascinating that even when I lose patience with your want of everything else I can’t afford to sacrifice you. Your prospects are now very good. The estimable mother —

GIOVANELLI. The estimable mother believes me to be already engaged to her daughter. It shows how much she knows about it!

EUGENIO. NO, you are not engaged, but you will be, next week. You have rather too many flowers there, by the way : you overdo it a little. (Pointing to Giovanelli’s button-hole.)

GIOVANELLI. So long as you pay for them, the more the better! How far will it carry me to be engaged ? Mr. Miller can hardly be such a fool as his wife.

EUGENIO, stroking his mustache. Mr. Miller ?

GIOVANELLI. The mysterious father, in that unpronounceable town! He must be a man of energy, to have made such a fortune, and the idea of his energy haunts me!

EUGENIO. That’s because you’ve got none yourself.

GIOVANELLI. I don’t pretend to that; I only pretend to — a — EUGENIO. TO be fascinating, I know ! But you ’re afraid the papa won’t see it.

GIOVANELLI. I don’t exactly see why he should set his heart on a Roman sonin-law.

EUGENIO. It’s your business to produce that miracle!

GIOVANELLI. By making the girl talked about ? My respect for her is in proportion to the confidence she shows me. That confidence is unlimited.

EUGENIO. Oh, unlimited! I have never seen anything like that confidence ; and if out of such a piece of cloth as that you can’t cut a coat —

GIOVANELLI. I never pretended to be a tailor ! And you must not forget that I have a rival.

EUGENIO. Forget it? I regard it as a particularly gratifying fact. If you did n’t have a rival I should have very small hopes of you.

GIOVANELLI. I confess I don’t follow you. The young lady’s confidence in Mr. Winterbourne is at least equal to her confidence in me.

EUGENIO. Ah, but his confidence in the young lady ? That’s another affair ! He thinks she goes too far. He’s an American, like herself; but there are Americans and Americans, and when they take it into their heads to open their eyes they open them very wide.

GIOVANELLI. If you mean that this American’s a donkey, I see no reason to differ with you.

EUGENIO. Leave him to me. I’ve got a stick to beat him with !

GIOVANELLT, uneasy. You make me shiver a little! Do you mean to put him out of the way ?

EUGENIO. I mean to put him out of the way. Ah, you can trust me! I don’t carry a stiletto, and if you ’ll excuse me I won’t describe my little plan. You ’ll tell me what you think of it when you have seen the results. The great feature is simply that Miss Daisy, seeing herself abandoned — GIOVANELLI. Will look about her for a consoler ? Ah, consolation is a specialty of mine, and if you give me a chance to console I think I shall be safe.

EUGENIO. I shall go to work on the spot! (Takes out his pocket-book, from which he extracts a small folded paper, holding it up a moment before Giovanelli.) Put your name to that, and send it back to me by post.

GIOVANELLI, reading the paper with a little grimace. Fifty thousand ! Fifty thousand is steep.

EUGENIO. Signor Cavaliere, the letter of credit is for half a million!

GIOVANELLI, pocketing the paper. Well, give me a chance to console — give me a chance to console ! ( Goes off at the back, while, at the same moment, Madame de Katkoff reappears.)

SCENE IV. EUGENIO, MADAME DE KATKOFF.

EUGENIO, perceiving her, aside. The Katkoff — up to time ! If my second little paper works as well as my first, I’ve nothing to fear. (Alotd.) I am quite at the service of Madame.

MME. DE K. My carriage has not come back ; it was to pick up a friend at St. Peter’s.

EUGENIO. I am greatly indebted to Madame’s friends. I have my little proposition ready.

MME. DE K. Be so good as to let me hear it.

EUGENIO. In three words it is this: Do me the favor to captivate Mr. Winterbourne ! Madame starts a little. She will pretend, perhaps, that Mr. Winterbourne is already captivated.

MME. DE K. YOU have an odd idea of my pretensions ! I would rather pay you a sum of money than listen to this sort of thing.

EUGENIO. I was afraid you would be a little shocked—at first. But the proposal I make has the greatest recommendations. MME. DE K. For Mr. Winterbourne, certainly !

EUGENIO. For Mr. Winterbourne, very plainly ; but also for Madame, if she would only reflect upon the facility—

MME. DE K. What do you know about facility ? Your proposal is odious !

EUGENIO. The worst is already done. Mr. Winterbourne is deeply interested in Madame.

MME. DE K. His name has no place in our discussion. Be so good as not to mention it again.

EUGENIO. It will be easy not to mention it: Madame will understand without that. She will remember, perhaps, that when I had the honor of meeting her, last summer, I was in the service of a distinguished family.

MME. DE IV. The amiable Mrs. Miller ? That name has stuck in my mind !

EUGENIO. Permit me to regard it as a happy omen ! The amiable Mrs. Miller, as I then informed Madame, has a daughter as amiable as herself. It is of the greatest importance that this young lady should be detached from the gentleman whose name I am not allowed to mention.

MME. DE K. Should be detached?

EUGENIO. If he is interested in Madame, he is also a little interested in the Signorina. You know what men are, Madame !

MME. DE K. If the Signorina is as amiable as you say, I can imagine no happier circumstance.

EUGENIO. From the point of view of Madame, who is a little tired of the gentleman ; but not from my own, who wish the young lady to make another marriage.

MME. DE IV. Excuse me from entering into your points of view and your marriages!

EUGENIO, abruptly. Ah, if you choose to terminate the discussion, it wasn’t worth while to wait. (A pause.) MME. DE K., aside. It was worth while to wait — to learn what a coward I am ! (Aloud, after a moment.) Is

Miss Miller in love with Mr. Winterbourne ?

EUGENIO, smiling. I thought Madame would come to the name ! (Aside.) It was the idea that fetched her! (Aloud.) Miss Miller is not, perhaps, exactly in love with Mr. Winterbourne, but she has a great appreciation of his society. What I ask of you is to undertake that for the next two months she shall have as little of it as possible.

MME, DE K. By taking as much of it myself ? You ask me to play a very pretty part.

EUGENIO. Madame would play it to perfection !

MME. DE K. To break a young girl’s heart—to act an abominable comedy ?

EUGENIO. You won’t break any one’s heart, unless it be Mr. Winterbourne’s — which will serve him right for being so tiresome. As for the comedy, remember that the best actresses receive the highest salary.

MME. DE IV. If I had been a good actress, you never would have got me into your power. What do you propose to do with your little American ?

EUGENIO. To marry her to a Roman gentleman. All I ask of you is to use a power you already have. I know that of late it has suited your pleasure not to use it: you have tried to keep Mr. Winterbourne at a distance. But call him a little nearer, and you will see that he will come !

MME. DE K. So that the girl may see it too? Your ingenuity does you great

honor. I don’t believe in your Roman gentleman,

EUGENIO. It is not necessary that you should believe. Believe only that on the day the Signorina becomes engaged to the irreproachable person I have selected I will place in your hands the document which I hold at your disposition. MME. DE TC. ITOW am I to be sure of that ?

EUGENIO, aside. They all want to be sure ! (Aloud.) Nothing venture, nothing have !

MME. DE IV. And if she never becomes engaged ?

EUGENIO. Ah, then, I confess, I must still hold the document. (Aside.) That will make her work for it ! (Aloud.) Why should you trouble yourself with irrelevant questions ? Your task is perfectly definite. Occupy Mr. Winterbourne, and leave the rest to me.

MME. DE IV. 1 must tell you—disagreeable as it may be to me to do so — that I shall have to make a very sudden turn.

EUGENIO. It will be all the more effective. (Complacently.) Sudden turns are the essence of fascination 1

MME. DE IV., aside. It’s insufferable to discuss with him ! But if there’s a hope — if there’s a hope . . . (Aloud.) I told Mr. Winterbourne, not an hour ago, that I wished never to see him again.

EUGENIO. I can imagine no more agreeable surprise to him, then, than to be told, half an hour hence, that you can’t live without him! You know the things the ladies say ! Don’t be afraid of being sudden : he ’ll think it the more romantic. For you those things are easy, Madame (bowing low) ; for you those things are easy. I leave the matter to your consideration. (Aside, as he goes off.) She ’ll do it! (Exit.)

MME. DE K., alone a moment. Those things are easy — those things are easy ? They are easier, perhaps, than paying out half one’s fortune. (Stands a moment thoughtful, then gives a little nervous gesture, as of decision.) If I give him leave to come to the opera, I must go myself — to Italian music ! But an hour or two of Donizetti, for the sake of one’s comfort! . . . He said he would come back — from the wife of the consul. (Looking about her, she goes out.)

SCENE V. DAISY, then GIOVANELLI.

DAISY, coming in with a certain haste, and glancing behind her. It’s a pity you can’t walk in Rome without every one staring so ! And now he’s not here

— he’s not where he said he would be.

I don’t care. He’s very nice, but I certainly shan’t go and look for him. I ’ll just wait a little. Perhaps, if I don’t walk round, they won’t stare at me so much. I did n’t say good-by to Mrs. Walker, because she was talking to Mr. Winterbourne, and I shan’t go near Mr. Winterbourne again till he comes near me. Half an hour in the room, and never within ten yards of me ! He looks so pleasant when he talks — even when he talks to other girls. He’s always talking to other girls, and not even to girls — to old women, and gentlemen, and foreigners. I’ve done something he does n’t like, I’m very sure of that. He does n’t like anything — anything that I do. It’s hard to know what he does like ! He’s got such peculiar tastes

— from his foreign education ; you can’t ever tell where you ’ll find him. Well, I have n’t had a foreign education, and I don’t see that I’m any the worse for that. If I’d had a foreign education, I might as well give up! I should n’t be able to breathe, for fear I was breathing wrong. There seem to be so many ways, over here ; but I only know one way, and I don’t see why I should learn the others when there are people who do like — who do like—what I do. They say they do, at any rate, and they say it so prettily ! The English say it very nicely, but the Italians say it best. As for the Americans, they don’t say it at all, and Mr. Winterbourne less than any of them ! Well, I don’t care so much about the Americans : I can make it all right with the Americans when I get home. Mr. Winterbourne is n’t an American; I never saw any one like him over there. If I had, perhaps I should n’t have come away ; for over there it would all be different. Well, it is n’t different here, and I suppose it never will be. Everything is strange over here; and what is strangest of all is one’s liking people that are so peculiar. (Stands thoughtful a moment, then rouses herself.) There’s Mr. Giovanelli — a mile off. Does he suppose I wish to communicate with him by signs ?

( Giovanelli comes in, hat in hand, with much eagerness.)

GIOVANELLI. I have looked for you everywhere !

DAISY. Well, I was n’t everywhere ;

I was here.

GIOVANELLI. Standing all alone, without a protector !

DAISY. I was n’t more alone than I was at Mrs. Walker’s.

GIOVANELLI, smiling, slightly fatuous. Because I was not there ?

DAISY. Oh, it was n’t the people who were not there ! (Aside.) If they had known I was coming, I suppose there would n’t have been any one !

GIOVANELLI, in an attitude of the most respectful admiration. How can I sufficiently thank you for granting me this supreme satisfaction?

DAISY. That’s a very fine name to give to a walk on the Pincian. You had better put on your hat.

GIOVANELLI. You wish to escape notice? Perhaps you are right. That was why I did n’t come to Mrs. Walker’s, whose parties are so charming! I thought that if we slipped away together it might attract attention.

DAISY. Do you mean they would have thought it improper ? They would have thought it still more improper to see me leaving alone; so I did n’t say a word to any one—only mother.

GIOVANELLI. Ah, you told your admirable parent ? She is with us, then, in spirit!

DAISY. She wanted to get away herself, if that’s what you mean; but she did n’t feel as if she could leave till Eugenio came for her. And Eugenio seems to have so much to do today !

GIOVANELLI. It’s doubtless in your interest. He’s a very faithful servant.

DAISY. Well, he told mother she must stay there an hour: he had some business of importance.

GIOVANELLI. Let us hope that his business is done, and that the patient Mrs. Miller is released.

DAISY. She was patient enough when I told her I should n’t come to dinner.

GIOVANELLI,starting, with an air of renewed devotion. Am I to understand that you have consented to my little fantasy ?

DAISY. Of dining at that old tavern , where the artists go ?

GIOVANELLI. The renowned and delightful Falcone, in the heart of ancient Rome ! You are a person of delicious surprises! The other day, you would n’t listen to it.

DAISY. I don’t remember the other day : all I know is, I ’ll go now. (Aside.) The other day Mr. Winterbourne spoke to me !

GIOVANELLI. My dear young lady , you make me very happy !

DAISY. By going to eat maccaroni with you ?

GIOVANELLI. It is n’t the maccaroni; it ’s the sentiment!

DAISY. The sentiment is yours, not mine. I have n’t any : it’s all gone !

GIOVANELLI. Well, I shan’t complain if I find myself at table with you in a dusky corner of that picturesque little cook-shop, where the ceiling is black, and the walls are brown, and the floor is red !

DAISY,watching him as he describes it. Oh dear ! it must be very lovely.

GIOVANELLI. And the old wine-flasks, covered with plaited straw, are as big round — are much bigger round — than your waist!

DAISY. That’s just what I want to see. Let’s go there at once !

GIOVANELLI,consulting his watch. Half past four. Is n’t that rather soon to dine ?

DAISY. We can go on foot through the old streets. I’m dying to see them on foot .

GIOVANELLI,aside. That will be cheaper than a cab ! (Aloud.) We should get there at five — a little early still. Might n’t we first take a few turns round this place ?

DAISY,after a pause. Oh, yes, if you like.

GIOVANELLI,aside. I should like my creditors to see! (Aloud.) Perhaps it does n’t suit you : you ’re a little afraid.

DAISY. What should I be afraid of ?

GIOVANELLI,smiling. Not of meeting your mother, I know !

DAISY. If I had been afraid, I should n’t have come.

GIOVANELLI. That is perfect. But let me say one thing : you have a way of taking the meaning from the favors you bestow.

DAISY. The meaning? They have n’t got any meaning !

GIOVANELLI,vaguely. Ah ! (Mrs. Costello, Miss Durant, and Charles Reverdy appear.)

DAISY,looking at Mrs. Costello and Miss Durant. Unless it be to make those dreadful women glower! How d’ ye do, Mr. Reverdy ?

GIOVANELLI,smiling. I see you are not afraid ! (He goes out with her.)

SCENE VI. MRS. COSTELLO, MISS DURANT, CHARLES REVEKDY.

MISS D. She has grown to look very hard.

MRS. C. The gentleman looks soft, and that makes up for it.

MISS D. Do you call him a gentleman ?

MRS. C. Ah, compared with the courier ! She has a different one every time.

REVERDY,with the camp-stool, aside.

A different one every time, but never, alas, this one !

MRS. C. There’s one comfort in it all: she has given up Frederick.

MISS D. Ah, she goes too far even for him!

REVERDY. Too far with other men : that’s the trouble ! With him she went as far as the Castle of Chillon.

MRS. C. Don’t recall that episode. Heaven only knows what happened there.

REVERDY. I know what happened : he was awfully sold. That’s why he let you carry him off.

MRS. C. Much good it did us ! I ’m very much disappointed in Frederick.

MISS D. I can’t imagine what you expected of him.

MRS. C. I expected him to fall in love with you — or to marry you, at any rate .

Miss D. YOU would have been still more disappointed, then, if I had refused him.

MRS. C., dryly. I should have been surprised .

REVERDY, sentimentally. Would you have refused him, Miss Durant?

Miss D. Yes, on purpose to spite you. You don’t understand? It takes a man to be stupid! If Mr. Winterbourne were to marry some one else, it would leave Miss Daisy Miller free.

REVERDY. Free to walk about with the native population ? She seems to be free enough already. Mrs. Costello, the camp-stool is at your service.

MRS. C. Give it to me, and I ’ll go and sit in the shade. Excuse me, I would rather carry it myself. ( Taking the camp-stool, aside to Miss Durant.) If he proposes, mind you accept him.

MISS D. If who proposes?

MRS. C. Our young companion ! He is manŒuvring to get rid of me. He has nothing but his expectations, but his expectations are of the best. (She marches away with her camp-stool, and seats herself at a distance, where, withher eyeglass raised, she appears to look at what goes on in another part of the garden)

MISS D., aside. Am I one of his expectations ? Fortunately, I don’t need to marry for money. (Aloud.) Cousin Louisa is furious with me for not being more encouraging to Mr. Winterbourne. I don’t know what she would have liked me to do !

REVERDY. You have been very proper, very dignified.

MISS D. That’s the way I was brought up. I never liked him, from the first.

REVERDY. Oh, he’s a stupid stick!

Miss D. I don’t say he’s stupid — and he’s very good looking.

REVERDY. As good looking as a man can be in whom one feature — the most expressive — has been entirely omitted. He has got no eyes in his head.

MISS D. No eyes ?

REVERDY. To see that that poor little creature is in love with him.

MISS D. She has a queer way of showing it .

REVERDY. Ah, they always have queer ways !

MISS D. He sees it, but he does n’t care.

REVERDY. That’s still worse, — the omission not of a feature, but of an organ (tapping his heart and smiling), the seat of our purest and highest joys !

MISS D., aside. Cousin Louisa was right! (Aloud.) Do you mean that he has no heart ?

REVERDY. If he had as big a one as the rosette on your shoe, would he leave me here to do all the work ?

MISS D., looking at her foot. The rosette on my shoe is rather big.

REVERDY, looking as well. It is n’t so much the size of the rosette as the smallness of the shoe !

Miss D., aside. Cousin Louisa is certainly right! (Aloud, smiling.) Yours, I suppose, is bigger than that.

REVERDY. My shoe ? I should think so — rather !

MISS D. Dear, no ! I mean your heart. Though I don’t think it’s at all nice in you to complain of being left with us.

REVERDY. When I’m left with you, I don’t complain; but when I 'm left with her! (Indicating Mrs. Costello.)

MISS D. Well, you ’re not with her now.

REVERDY. Ah, now it’s very pleasant. Only she has got the camp-stool.

MISS D. Do you want it for yourself ?

REVERDY. Yes; I have been carrying it for the last six months, and I feel rather awkward without it. It gives one confidence to have something in one’s hand.

Miss D. Good heavens ! What do you want to do ?

REVERDY. I want to make you a little speech.

Miss D. You will do very well as you are.

REVERDY. I’ll try it. (In an attitude.) Six months ago I had moments of rebellion, but to-day I have come to love my chains ! Accordingly—(Mrs. Costello starts up and hurries forward, the camp-stool in her hand.) By Jove ! if she hears me, she ’ll rivet them faster !

MRS. C., seizing Miss Durant’s arm. My poor, dear child, whom do you think I’ve seen ?

REVERDY. By your expression, the ghost of Julius Cæsar !

MRS. C. The Russian woman—the princess — whom we saw last summer.

MISS D. Well, my dear cousin, she won’t eat us up !

MRS. C. No, but she’ll eat Frederick!

REVERDY. On the contrary, her appetite for Frederick is small. Don’t you remember that, last summer, she left the hotel as soon as he arrived ?

MRS. C. That was only a feint, to put us off the scent. He has been in secret correspondence with her, and their meeting here is prearranged.

MISS D. I don’t know why you call their correspondence secret, when he was always going to the post-office !

MRS. C. Ah, but you can’t tell what he did there ! Frederick is very deep.

REVERDY. There’s nothing secret, at any rate, about her arrival here. She alighted yesterday at our own hotel, in the most public manner, with the landlord and all the waiters drawn up to receive her. It did n’t occur to me to mention it.

MRS. C. I don’t really know what you are with us for !

Miss D. Oh, Cousin Louisa, he is meant for better things than that!

MRS. C., to Miss Durant , aside. Do you mean that he has proposed ?

Miss D. NO, but he was just going to.

MRS. C., disappointed. Ah, you’ve told me that before !

MISS D. Because you never give him time.

MRS. C. Does he want three hours ?

MISS D. No, but he wants three minutes !

REVERDY, who has strolled away , observing them , aside. Happy thought, to make them fight about me ! Mutual destruction would ensue, and I should be master of the situation. (Aloud.) I am only a man, dear Madam ; I am not a newspaper.

MRS. C. If you only were, we could stop our subscription ! And, as a proof of what I say, here comes Frederick, to look after his Russian. ( Winterbourne comes in, with Mrs. Walker.)

REVERDY. With the wife of the consul, to look after him !

SCENE VII. MRS. COSTELLO, MISS DURANT, REVERDY, WINTERBOURNE, MRS. WALKER.

MRS. WALKER. Oh, you dreadful people, what are you doing here, when you ought to be at my reception ? MRS. COSTELLO. We were just thinking of going ; it’s so very near.

MRS. W. Only round the corner! But there are better reasons than that.

MISS D. There can hardly be a very good one, when you yourself have come away !

MRS. W. You’d never imagine what has brought me ! I’ve come in pursuit of little Daisy Miller.

MRS. C. And you’ve brought my nephew to help you !

WINTERBOURNE. A walk in such charming company is a privilege not to be lost. Perhaps, dear aunt, you can give us news.

MRS. C. Of that audacious and desperate person ? Dear me, yes. We met her just now, on the arm of a dreadful man.

MRS. W. Oh, we ’re too late then. She’s lost!

MRS. C. It seems to me she was lost long ago, and (significantly, at Winterbourne) that this is not the first rendezvous she has taken.

WINTERBOURNE, smiling. If it does her no more harm than the others, Mrs. Walker had better go back to her teapot!

REVERDY, to Miss Durant. That’s an allusion to the way he was sold!

MRS. W. She left my house, half an hour ago, without a word to any one but her goose of a mother, who thought it all right that she should walk off to the Pincian to meet the handsome Giovanelli. I only discovered her flight just now, by a lady who was coming in at the moment that Miss Daisy, shaking out her little flounces and tossing up her little head, tripped away from my door, to fall into the arms of a cavalier !

MISS D. Into his arms? Ah, Mrs. Walker !

MRS. W. My dear young lady, with these unscrupulous foreigners one can never be sure. You know as well as I what becomes of the reputation of a girl who shows herself in this place, at this hour, with all the rank and fashion of Rome about her, with no more responsible escort than a gentleman renowned for his successes !

REVERDY, to Miss Durant. It’s as if y were here with me, you know !

MRS. W. This idea came over me with a kind of horror, and I determined to save her if I could.

MRS. C. There’s nothing left of her to save!

MRS. AV. There is always something left, and my representative position makes it a duty. My rooms were filled with guests — a hundred and fifty people — but I put on my bonnet and seized Mr. Winterbourne’s arm.

WINTERBOURNE. You can testify that I did n’t wince ! I quite agree with you as to the importance of looking her up. Foreigners never understand.

REVERDY, aside. My dear fellow, if they understand no better than you! . . .

MRS. W. What I want of you dear people is to go and entertain my visitors. Console them for my absence, and tell them I shall be back in five minutes.

MISS D. It will be very nice to give a reception without any trouble.

MRS. C. Without any trouble — scarcely! But there is nothing we would n’t do —

MRS. W. For the representative of one’s country ! Be charming, then, as you can so well. (Seeing Daisy and Giovanelli come in.) I shall not be long, for by the mercy of Heaven the child is guided to this spot!

REVERDY. If you think you have only to pick her up, we won’t wait for you! (He goes out with Mrs. Costello and Miss Durant.)

SCENE VIII. MRs. WALKER, WINTERBOURNE, DAISY, GIOVANELLI.

WINTERBOURNE, as the two others slowly come in together, not at first see-ing him. We shall have a siege : she won’t give him up for the asking.

MRS. WALKER. We must divide our forces, then . You will deal with Daisy.

WINTERBOURNE. I would rather attack the gentleman .

MRS. W. NO, no ; there ’ll be trouble. Mr. Giovanelli, I should like a little conversation with you.

GIOVANELLI,starting, and coming forward ; very polite. You do me great honor, Madame!

MRS. W. I wish to scold you for not coming to me to-day ; but to spare your blushes, it must be in private. (Strolls away with him, out of sight.)

DAISY,aside. They have come to take me away. Ah, they are very cruel!

WINTERBOURNE. I had no chance to speak to you at Mrs. Walker’s,and I’ve come to make up for my loss.

DAISY,looking at him a moment. What is Mrs. Walker doing here? Why does n’t she stay with her guests ?

WINTERBOURNE. I brought her away — to do just what she has done .

DAISY. To take away Mr. Giovanelli? I don’t understand you.

WINTERBOURNE. A great many people think that you understand, but that you don’t care.

DAISY. I don’t care what people think . I have done no harm .

WINTERBOURNE. That’s exactly what I say — you don’t care. But I wish you would care a little, for your friends are very much frightened. When Mrs. Walker ascertained that you had left her house alone, and had come to meet a gentleman here — here, where all Rome assembles at this hour to amuse itself, and where you would be watched and criticised and calumniated— when Mrs. Walker made this discovery, she said but three words — “ To the rescue ! ” But she took her plunge, as if you had been drowning.

DAISY. And you jumped overboard, too!

WINTERBOURNE. Oh dear, no; I’m standing on the brink. I only interpret her sentiments. I don’t express my own.

DAISY. They would interest me more than Mrs. Walker’s; but I don’t see what either of you have to do with me.

WINTERBOURNE. We admire you very much, and we hate to see you misjudged .

DAISY. I don’t know what you mean , and I don’t know what you think I want to do .

WINTERBOURNE. I have n’t the least idea about that. All I mean is that if you could see, as I see it, how little it’s the custom here to do what you do, and how badly it looks to fly in the face of the custom, you would be a little more on your guard.

DAISY. I know nothing about the custom. I’m an American ; I ’m not one of these people .

WINTERBOURNE. In that case, you would behave differently. Your being an American is just the point. You are a very conspicuous American, thanks to your attractions, to your charms, to the publicity of your life. Such people, with the best intentions in the world, are often very indiscreet; and it’s to save the reputation of her compatriots that the fairest and brightest of young American girls should sacrifice a little of her independence.

DAISY. Look here , Mr. Winterbourne, you make too much fuss : that’s what’s the matter with you!

WINTERBOURNE. If I make enough to persuade you to go home with Mrs. Walker, my highest ambition will be gratified.

DAISY. I think you are trying to mystify me : I can tell that by your language. One would never think you were the same person who went with me to that castle.

WINTERBOURNE. I am not quite the same, but I’ve a good deal in common with him. Now, Mr. Giovanelli does n’t resemble that person at all.

DAISY, coldly. I don’t know why you speak to me about Mr. Giovanelli.

WINTERBOURNE. Because — because Mrs. Walker asked me to.

DAISY. It would be better if she should do it herself.

WINTERBOURNE. That’s exactly what J told her ; but she had an odd fancy that I have a kind of influence with you.

DAISY, with expression. Poor Mrs. Walker !

WINTERBOURNE. Poor Mrs. Walker ! She does n’t know that no one has any influence with you — that you do nothing in the world but what pleases yourself.

DAISY. Whom, then, am I to please? The people that think such dreadful things of me? I don’t even understand what they think ! What do you mean, about my reputation ? I have n’t got any reputation ! If people are so cruel and wicked, I am sure I would rather not know it. In America they let me alone, and no one ran after me, like Mrs. Walker. It’s natural I should like the people who seem to like me, and who will take the trouble to go round with me. The others may say what they like. I can’t understand Italian, and I should never hear of it if you did n’t come and translate.

WINTERBOURNE. It’s not only the Italians — it’s the Americans.

DAISY. Do you mean your aunt and your cousin ? I don’t know why I should make myself miserable for them!

WINTERBOURNE. I mean every one who has ever had the very questionable advantage of making your acquaintance — only to be subjected to the torment of being unable either to believe in you or to doubt of you.

DAISY. To doubt of me? You are very strange !

WINTERBOURNE. You are stranger still. But I did n’t come here to reason with you: that would be vain, for we speak a different language, and we should n’t understand each other. I only came to say to you, in the most respectful manner, that if you should consult your best interests you would go home with Mrs. Walker.

DAISY. Do you think I had such a lovely time there, half an hour ago, when you did n’t so much as look at me ?

WINTERBOURNE. If I had spoken to you, would you have stayed ?

DAISY. After I had an engagement here ? ( With a little laugh.) I must

say, you expect a great deal!

WINTERBOURNE, looking at her a moment. What they say is true — you’re a thorough-going coquette !

(Mrs. Welker reappears, with Giovanelli.)

DAISY". YOU speak too much of what they say. To escape from you, I ’ll go anywhere !

MRS. W., to Winterbourne, while Giovanelli speaks to Daisy. He’s very accommodating, when you tell him that if Mrs. Miller gets frightened she will start off for America.

WINTERBOURNE. It’s more than I can say of Miss Daisy !

MRS. W. Have you had no success ?

WINTERBOURNE. I have had my ears boxed !

MRS. W., to Daisy. My precious child, you escaped from my drawing-room before I had half the talk we wanted.

DAISY. Are they all waiting there to see me brought back ?

MRS. W. Oh dear, no ; they’ve plenty to think about — with Mrs. Costello and Miss Durant.

DAISY. Ah, those ladies are there? Then I certainly shan’t go back.

MRS. W., alarmed. Hush ! They ’re relations of Mr. Winterbourne.

DAISY. All the more reason for my hating them !

MRS. W., to Winterbourne. You must excuse her; she is very wicked to-day! (To Daisy.) If you won’t go home, then I ’ll stay with you here. Mr. Giovanelli, you promised me you would go to my house.

GIOVANELLI. I am at the orders of Mademoiselle,

DAISY. You may do what you please till dinner-time.

WINTERBOURNE, aside. Gracious heavens ! is she going to dine with him? (Aloud, to Daisy.) We were interrupted, but I have a great deal more to say.

DAISY. More of the same sort ? It will be a pleasure to hear that !

WINTERBOURNE. What’s coming is a great deal better. — Do you dine at your table d'hôte'?

DAISY. Oh, yes. Randolph likes the table d’hote.

WINTERBOURNE. I will ask for a place there this evening, and, with your permission, it shall be next to yours.

DAISY. I ’m very sorry, but I’m not sure of this evening.

WINTERBOURNE, gravely. That’s a great disappointment to me. (A short silence.)

MRS. W., to Giovanelli. You promised me you would go to my house!

GIOVANELLI. As a man of honor, then, I must go. But I assure you, Mademoiselle (to Daisy), that I soon return.

DAISY. As soon as you like ! (Giovanelli walks away. To Winterbourne.) Can’t you come some other night ?

WINTERBOURNE. Oh, yes, by waiting a little. But with the uncertainty of your stay in Rome, this would be always something gained.

DAISY. What will you do after dinner ?

WINTERBOURNE. With your kind permission, I will adjourn with you to your mother’s sitting-room.

DAISY. You are very devoted, all of a sudden !

WINTERBOURNE. Better late than never!

DAISY. You are just as you were at that castle!

WINTERBOURNE. So are you — at this moment. We can dream we are in that happy place ! DAISY, aside. He can do with me what he will. (Aloud, quickly.) I’ll tell them to keep you a seat!

WINTERBOURNE. I shall be indebted to you forever!

DAISY. Oh, if I don’t see about it, they ’ll put you at the other end.

WINTERBOURNE. Next you — that’s the point.

DAISY. Between me and Randolph ! At half past six !

WINTERBOURNE. At half past six.

MRS. W., to Winterbourne. You can go about your business. I have something to say to her alone.

DAISY. Don’t forget half past six !

WINTERBOURNE. Never in the world. At half past six ! ( Walks away.)

MRS. WALKER, alone with Daisy. And now may I be permitted to inquire whether you had arranged to dine with that Italian ?

DAISY, smiling. In the heart of ancient Rome ! But don’t tell Mr. Winterbourne what I gave up !

MRS. WALKER, aside. I ’ll get you out of Rome to-morrow ! (Aloud.) I must show you to the crowd — with me.

( Goes out leading Daisy.)

SCENE IX. REVERDY, RANDOLPH.

REVERDY, coming in just as the others pass out, and completing Mrs. Walker’s phrase. The wife of the American consul ! The American consul is all very well, but I ’ll be hanged if I ’ll carry on the business ! It’s quite enough to do odd jobs for Mrs. Costello, without taking service at the consulate. Fifty carriages before the door, and five hundred people up-stairs. My companions may get up if they can ! It’s the first time to-day I’ve had a moment for a quiet smoke. (Lights a cigar, and while he is doing so Randolph comes in.) O Lord, the Old Man of the Sea!

RANDOLPH, planted before Reverdy.

I say, Mr. Reverdy, suppose you offer me a cigar.

REVERDY. My poor child, my cigars are as big as yourself !

RANDOLPH. There’s nothing fit to smoke over here. You can’t get ’em as you can in America.

REVERDY. Yes, they ’re better in America (smoking) ; but they cost a good deal more.

RANDOLPH. I don’t care what I pay. I’ve got all the money I want.

REVERDY. Don’t spend it; keep it till you grow up.

RANDOLPH. Oh, I ain’t going to grow up I’ve been this way for ever so long. Mother brought me over to see if I would n’t start, but I have n’t started an inch. You can’t start in this old country.

REVERDY. The Romans were rather tall!

RANDOLPH. I don’t care for the Romans. A child’s as good as a man.

REVERDY, aside. The future of democracy ! (Aloud.) You remind me of the infant Hannibal.

RANDOLPH. There’s one good thing: so long as I ’m little, my mother can’t see me. She’s looking all round.

REVERDY. I was going to ask you if she allowed you to mingle in this human maze.

RANDOLPH. Mother’s in the carriage, but I jumped out.

REVERDY. Imprudent little man ! At the risk of breaking your neck ?

RANDOLPH. Oh, we were crawling along — we have n’t American trotters. I saw you walking about, and when mother was n’t looking I just dropped. As soon as she missed me, she began to howl!

REVERDY. I am sorry to be the occasion of a family broil.

RANDOLPH. She thinks I am run over; she has begun to collect a crowd.

REVERDY. You wicked little person ! I must take you straight back to her.

RANDOLPH. I thought you might like to know where my sister is. REVERDY. At the present moment my anxiety is about your mother.

RANDOLPH. Daisy’s gone on a bender. If you ’ll give me a cigar, I ’ll put you up to it.

REVERDY. You ’re a vulgar little boy. Take me instantly to your mother.

RANDOLPH, very sarcastic. Would n’t you like to carry me on your back ?

REVERDY. If you don’t come, I ’ll take you under my arm. (Starts to seize him.)

RANDOLPH, dodging. I won’t come, then !

REVERDY. Blast the little wretch ! I must relieve his mother. (Makes another attempt to capture Randolph, who escapes, while Reverdy gives chase, and they disappear.)

SCENE X. WINTERBOURNE, then MADAME DE KATKOFF.

WINTERBOURNE, coming in alone. Remarkable family, the Millers ! Mrs. Miller, standing up in her carriage, in the centre of a crowd of Italians, and chattering to them in her native tongue. She falls upon my neck when she sees me, and announces that the gifted Randolph is no more. He has tumbled out of the vehicle, and been trampled to death ! We institute a search for his remains, and as it proves fruitless she begs me to come and look for him here. (Looking round him.) I don’t perceive any remains ! He has mingled in the giddy throng, and the giddy throng may bring him back ! It’s the business of that ruffian of a courier ! (Seeing Madame de Katkoff, aside.) Is she still here ? (Aloud.) To meet you again is better fortune than I hoped.

MME. DE KATKOFF, strolling in slowly, with an air of deliberation, and standing a moment thoughtful. Will you do me the favor to dine with me to-night?

WINTERBOURNE, startled. To dine with you to-night ?

MME. DE K. You stare as if I were a ghost ! It’s very simple: to dine with me to-night, at seven o’clock, at the Hôtel de Paris ?

WINTERBOURNE, aside. It’s a little awkward. {Aloud.) Do you dine at the table d’hôte ?

MME. DE K. At the table d’hôte, with that rabble of tourists ? I dine in my own apartments.

WINTERBOURNE. I supposed you had left the Pincian ; I had no idea you were lingering.

MME. DE K. Apparently I had a purpose, which you seem quite unable to appreciate. You are very slow in accepting !

WINTERBOURNE. To tell you the honest truth, I have made an engagement.

MME. DE K. An engagement ? A moment ago you were dying to spend the evening with me.

WINTERBOURNE. A moment ago you would n’t listen to me.

MME. DE K., after a pause. My dear friend, you are very stupid. A woman doesn’t confess the truth at the first summons 1

WINTERBOURNE. You are very strange. I accepted an invitation just after we parted.

MME. DE K. Send word you can’t come.

WINTERBOURNE. It was from the young lady you recommended me so strongly to turn my attention to.

MME. DE K. Ah, she gives invitations ?

WINTERBOURNE. I confess I asked for this one. They are also at the Hôtel do Paris, and they dine at the table d’hôte.

MME. DE K. A charming place to carry on a courtship !

WINTERBOURNE. It’s not a courtship — however much I may have wished to please you.

MME. DE K . Your wish to please me has suddenly diminished. Apparently,

I am to understand that you refuse! WINTERBOURNE. Even when you are kind, there’s something cruel in it ! — I will dine with you with pleasure.

MME. DE K. Send word, then, to your little American.

WINTERBOURNE. Yes, I ’ll send word. (Aside.) I hat’s uncommonly rough! (Aloud.) After dinner, I suppose, you ’ll go to the opera.

MME. DE IV. I don’t know about the opera. {Looking at him a moment.) It will be a splendid night. How should you like a moonlight drive ?

WINTERBOURNE. A moonlight drive — with you ? It seems to me you mock me!

MME. DE K., in the same tone. To wander through the old streets, when everything is still ; to see the solemn monuments wrapped up in their shadows ; to watch the great fountains turn to silver in the moonshine — that has always been a dream of mine ! We ’ll try it to-night.

WINTERBOURNE, affected by her tone. We ’ll see the great square of St. Peter’s ; we ’ll dip our hands in the Fountain of Trevi ! You must be strangely beautiful in the moonlight.

MME. DE IV. I don’t know. You shall see.

WINTERBOURNE. What will you do with the Russian ambassador ?

MME. DE K. Send him about his business.

WINTERBOURNE. An ambassador ! For me ?

MME. DE K. Don’t force me to say it; I shall make you too vain.

WINTERBOURNE. I’m not used to being treated so, and I can’t help feeling that it may be only a refinement of cruelty.

MME. DE K. If I’ve been cruel before, it was in self-defense. I have been sorely troubled, and I don’t pretend to be consistent. Women are never so — especially women who love !

WINTERBOURNE. I ask no questions;

I only thank you.

MME. DB K. At seven o’clock, then.

WINTERBOURNE. You are very strange ; but you are only the more adorable. At seven o’clock !

MME. DE K. You are not to come with me ; my carriage is there. (Aside, as she leaves him.) Ingenuous young man !

WINTERBOURNE, alone, standing a moment in thought. “ Women are never consistent — especially women who love ! ” I’ve waited three years, but it was worth waiting for! (Mrs. Walker comes in with Daisy, without his seeing them.)

SCENE XI. WINTERBOURNE, MRS. WALKER, DAISY, then EUGENIO AND GIOVANELLI.

DAISY. Well, Mr. Winterbourne, is that the way you look for my brother ? You had better not come to dinner unless you find him.

WINTERBOURNE. I was just wondering which way I had better go.

MRS. WALKER. Mrs. Miller has pressed us into the service, and she wants every one to go in a different direction. But I prefer (significantly) that Daisy and I should stick together.

DAISY, happily. Oh, I don’t care now. You may take me anywhere!

WINTERBOURNE, aside. Poor little thing ! And I’ve got to disappoint her! (Aloud.) I suppose I had better separate from you, then.

EUGENIO, arriving hastily. Mr. Randolph has been found—by Mr. Reverdy ! (To Daisy.) If I leave your mother a moment, a misfortune is sure to arrive.

MRS. W., aside. The misfortune, indeed, is his being found! (To Daisy.) If you will join your mother, I will go back to my guests (seeing Giovanelli) — whom Mr. Giovanelli has already deserted.

GIOVANELLI, coming in. Your guests have deserted me, Madame. They have left your house in a caravan : they could n’t stand your absence. MRS. W., to Daisy. I have offended all my friends for you, my dear. You ought to be grateful.

DAISY. The reason they left was not because you came away, but because you did n’t bring me back. They wanted to glare at me.

GIOVANELLI, with a little laugh. They glared at me a good deal!

MRS. W. I ’ll admit that they don’t like you. (To Daisy.) Let me place you in your mother’s hands.

EUGENIO, with importance. I will take charge of my young lady, Madame.

WINTERBOURNE, to Daisy. Before you go just let me say a word.

DAISY. As many as you please — only you frighten me !

WINTERBOURNE, aside. I’m rather frightened myself. (Aloud.) I’m very much afraid I shall not be able to dine to-night.

DAISY. Not be able — after your promise ?

WINTERBOURNE. It’s very true I promised, and I ’m greatly ashamed. But a most unexpected obstacle has sprung up. I’m obliged to take back my word — I’m exceedingly sorry.

MRS. W., in a low voice to Winterbourne. Ah, my dear sir, you ’re making a mess!

DAISY. Your obstacle must have come very quickly.

WINTERBOURNE. Only five minutes ago.

EUGENIO, aside. The Katkoff’s as good as her word !

DAISY, much affected. Well, Mr. Winterbourne, I can only say I too am very sorry.

WINTERBOURNE. I ’ll come the very first evening I’m free.

DAISY. I did n’t want the first evening ; I wanted this one.

WINTERBOURNE. I beg you to forgive me. My own loss is greater than yours.

GIOVANELLI, aside. My friend the courier is a clever man !

DAISY, thoughtful a moment. Well, it’s no matter.

MRS. W., to Eugenio. Please take her to her mother.

EUGENIO. I must act at my convenience, Madame !

DAISY. I’m not going to my mother. Mr. Giovanelli!

GIOVANELLI, with alacrity. Signorina ?

DAISY. Please to give me your arm. We ’ll go on with our walk.

MRS. W., coming between the two. Now don’t do anything dreadful!

DAISY, to Giovanelli. Give me your arm. (Giovanelli passes behind Mrs. Walker, and gives Daisy his arm on the other side. She continues, with a sudden outbreak of passion.) I see nothing dreadful but your cruel accusations ! If you all attack me, I ’ve a friend to defend me.

GIOVANELLI. I will defend you always, Signorina!

MRS. W. Are you going to take her to that drinking-shop ?

DAISY. That’s our own affair. Come away, come away!

WINTERBOURNE. I have done you a greater injury than I supposed.

DAISY. The injury was done when you spoke to me that way!

WINTERBOURNE. When I spoke to you ? I don’t understand. DAISY. Half an hour ago, when you said I was so bad !

GIOVANELLI. If people insult you, they will answer to me.

WINTERBOURNE, to Giovanelli. Don’t be rash, sir ! You will need all your caution.

MRS. W. High words between gentlemen, to crown the horrors ! (To Eugenio.) Go straight and ask Mrs. Miller if she consents.

EUGENIO, smiling. Mrs. Miller consents to everything that I approve.

DAISY. Come away, Mr. Giovanelli !

GIOVANELLI, aside. I shall have to take a cab ! ( They walk up the stage.)

MRS. W. Mercy on us ! She is lost!

WINTERBOURNE, sternly. Leave her alone ! She only wants a pretext!

DAISY, who has heard him, turning as she reaches the top of the stage, and looking back a moment. Thank you, Mr. Winterbourne! (She goes out with Giovanelli.)

MRS. W., to Winterbourne. Yes, my dear sir, you’ve done a pretty piece of work!

EUGENIO, with his hands in his pockets, as at the end of the first act, watching the scene complacently. My little revenge on the journey to the castle !

WINTERBOURNE, looking at his watch, to himself. Well, I shall have that moonlight drive !

Henry James, Jr.