io bowed. "At eleven o'clock, mademoiselle?"

"I am going with Mr. Winterbourne--this very minute."

"Do tell her she can't," said Mrs. Miller to the courier.

"I think you had better not go out in a boat, mademoiselle," Eugenio
declared.

Winterbourne wished to Heaven this pretty girl were not so familiar with
her courier; but he said nothing.

"I suppose you don't think it's proper!" Daisy exclaimed. "Eugenio
doesn't think anything's proper."

"I am at your service," said Winterbourne.

"Does mademoiselle propose to go alone?" asked Eugenio of Mrs. Miller.

"Oh, no; with this gentleman!" answered Daisy's mamma.

The courier looked for a moment at Winterbourne--the latter thought he
was smiling--and then, solemnly, with a bow, "As mademoiselle pleases!"
he said.

"Oh, I hoped you would make a fuss!" said Daisy. "I don't care to go
now."

"I myself shall make a fuss if you don't go," said Winterbourne.

"That's all I want--a little fuss!" And the young girl began to laugh
again.

"Mr. Randolph has gone to bed!" the courier announced frigidly.

"Oh, Daisy; now we can go!" said Mrs. Miller.

Daisy turned away from Winterbourne, looking at him, smiling and fanning
herself. "Good night," she said; "I hope you are disappointed, or
disgusted, or something!"

He looked at her, taking the hand she offered him. "I am puzzled," he
answered.

"Well, I hope it won't keep you awake!" she said very smartly; and,
under the escort of the privileged Eugenio, the two ladies passed toward
the house.

Winterbourne stood looking after them; he was indeed puzzled. He
lingered beside the lake for a quarter of an hour, turning over the
mystery of the young girl's sudden familiarities and caprices. But
the only very definite conclusion he came to was that he should enjoy
deucedly "going off" with her somewhere.

Two days afterward he went off with her to the Castle of Chillon. He
waited for her in the large hall of the hotel, where the couriers, the
servants, the foreign tourists, were lounging about and staring. It was
not the place he should have chosen, but she had appointed it. She came
tripping downstairs, buttoning her long gloves, squeezing her folded
parasol against her pretty figure, dressed in the perfection of a
soberly elegant traveling costume. Winterbourne was a man of imagination
and, as our ancestors used to say, sensibility; as he looked at her
dress and, on the great staircase, her little rapid, confid