they reached the low garden
wall, they stood a moment looking off at the great flat-topped pine
clusters of the Villa Borghese; then Giovanelli seated himself,
familiarly, upon the broad ledge of the wall. The western sun in the
opposite sky sent out a brilliant shaft through a couple of cloud bars,
whereupon Daisy's companion took her parasol out of her hands and opened
it. She came a little nearer, and he held the parasol over her; then,
still holding it, he let it rest upon her shoulder, so that both of
their heads were hidden from Winterbourne. This young man lingered a
moment, then he began to walk. But he walked--not toward the couple with
the parasol; toward the residence of his aunt, Mrs. Costello.

He flattered himself on the following day that there was no smiling
among the servants when he, at least, asked for Mrs. Miller at her
hotel. This lady and her daughter, however, were not at home; and on
the next day after, repeating his visit, Winterbourne again had the
misfortune not to find them. Mrs. Walker's party took place on the
evening of the third day, and, in spite of the frigidity of his last
interview with the hostess, Winterbourne was among the guests. Mrs.
Walker was one of those American ladies who, while residing abroad, make
a point, in their own phrase, of studying European society, and she
had on this occasion collected several specimens of her diversely born
fellow mortals to serve, as it were, as textbooks. When Winterbourne
arrived, Daisy Miller was not there, but in a few moments he saw her
mother come in alone, very shyly and ruefully. Mrs. Miller's hair
above her exposed-looking temples was more frizzled than ever. As she
approached Mrs. Walker, Winterbourne also drew near.

"You see, I've come all alone," said poor Mrs. Miller. "I'm so
frightened; I don't know what to do. It's the first time I've ever been
to a party alone, especially in this country. I wanted to bring Randolph
or Eugenio, or someone, but Daisy just pushed me off by myself. I ain't
used to going round alone."

"And does not your daughter intend to favor us with her society?"
demanded Mrs. Walker impressively.

"Well, Daisy's all dressed," said Mrs. Miller with that accent of the
dispassionate, if not of the philosophic, historian with which she
always recorded the current incidents of her daughter's career. "She got
dressed on purpose before dinner. But she's got a friend of hers there;
that gentleman--the Italian--tha