Part 9 (1/2)

”He should not have talked about it at all,” said Winterbourne; ”he would never have proposed to a young lady of this country to walk about the streets with him.”

”About the streets?” cried Daisy with her pretty stare. ”Where, then, would he have proposed to her to walk? The Pincio is not the streets, either; and I, thank goodness, am not a young lady of this country. The young ladies of this country have a dreadfully poky time of it, so far as I can learn; I don't see why I should change my habits for THEM.”

”I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt,” said Winterbourne gravely.

”Of course they are,” she cried, giving him her little smiling stare again. ”I'm a fearful, frightful flirt! Did you ever hear of a nice girl that was not? But I suppose you will tell me now that I am not a nice girl.”

”You're a very nice girl; but I wish you would flirt with me, and me only,” said Winterbourne.

”Ah! thank you--thank you very much; you are the last man I should think of flirting with. As I have had the pleasure of informing you, you are too stiff.”

”You say that too often,” said Winterbourne.

Daisy gave a delighted laugh. ”If I could have the sweet hope of making you angry, I should say it again.”

”Don't do that; when I am angry I'm stiffer than ever. But if you won't flirt with me, do cease, at least, to flirt with your friend at the piano; they don't understand that sort of thing here.”

”I thought they understood nothing else!” exclaimed Daisy.

”Not in young unmarried women.”

”It seems to me much more proper in young unmarried women than in old married ones,” Daisy declared.

”Well,” said Winterbourne, ”when you deal with natives you must go by the custom of the place. Flirting is a purely American custom; it doesn't exist here. So when you show yourself in public with Mr.

Giovanelli, and without your mother--”

”Gracious! poor Mother!” interposed Daisy.

”Though you may be flirting, Mr. Giovanelli is not; he means something else.”

”He isn't preaching, at any rate,” said Daisy with vivacity. ”And if you want very much to know, we are neither of us flirting; we are too good friends for that: we are very intimate friends.”

”Ah!” rejoined Winterbourne, ”if you are in love with each other, it is another affair.”

She had allowed him up to this point to talk so frankly that he had no expectation of shocking her by this e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n; but she immediately got up, blus.h.i.+ng visibly, and leaving him to exclaim mentally that little American flirts were the queerest creatures in the world. ”Mr.

Giovanelli, at least,” she said, giving her interlocutor a single glance, ”never says such very disagreeable things to me.”

Winterbourne was bewildered; he stood, staring. Mr. Giovanelli had finished singing. He left the piano and came over to Daisy. ”Won't you come into the other room and have some tea?” he asked, bending before her with his ornamental smile.

Daisy turned to Winterbourne, beginning to smile again. He was still more perplexed, for this inconsequent smile made nothing clear, though it seemed to prove, indeed, that she had a sweetness and softness that reverted instinctively to the pardon of offenses. ”It has never occurred to Mr. Winterbourne to offer me any tea,” she said with her little tormenting manner.

”I have offered you advice,” Winterbourne rejoined.

”I prefer weak tea!” cried Daisy, and she went off with the brilliant Giovanelli. She sat with him in the adjoining room, in the embrasure of the window, for the rest of the evening. There was an interesting performance at the piano, but neither of these young people gave heed to it. When Daisy came to take leave of Mrs. Walker, this lady conscientiously repaired the weakness of which she had been guilty at the moment of the young girl's arrival. She turned her back straight upon Miss Miller and left her to depart with what grace she might.

Winterbourne was standing near the door; he saw it all. Daisy turned very pale and looked at her mother, but Mrs. Miller was humbly unconscious of any violation of the usual social forms. She appeared, indeed, to have felt an incongruous impulse to draw attention to her own striking observance of them. ”Good night, Mrs. Walker,” she said; ”we've had a beautiful evening. You see, if I let Daisy come to parties without me, I don't want her to go away without me.” Daisy turned away, looking with a pale, grave face at the circle near the door; Winterbourne saw that, for the first moment, she was too much shocked and puzzled even for indignation. He on his side was greatly touched.

”That was very cruel,” he said to Mrs. Walker.

”She never enters my drawing room again!” replied his hostess.