Though he was impatient to see her, he hardly knew what he should say to her about his aunt’s refusal to become acquainted with her; but he discovered, promptly enough, that with Miss Daisy Miller there was no great need of walking on tiptoe.  He found her that evening in the garden, wandering about in the warm starlight like an indolent sylph, and swinging to and fro the largest fan he had ever beheld.  It was ten o’clock.  He had dined with his aunt, had been sitting with her since dinner, and had just taken leave of her till the morrow.  Miss Daisy Miller seemed very glad to see him; she declared it was the longest evening she had ever passed.

“Have you been all alone?” he asked.

“I have been walking round with mother.  But mother gets tired walking round,” she answered.

“Has she gone to bed?”

“No; she doesn’t like to go to bed,” said the young girl.  “She doesn’t sleep—­not three hours.  She says she doesn’t know how she lives.  She’s dreadfully nervous.  I guess she sleeps more than she thinks.  She’s gone somewhere after Randolph; she wants to try to get him to go to bed.  He doesn’t like to go to bed.”

“Let us hope she will persuade him,” observed Winterbourne.

“She will talk to him all she can; but he doesn’t like her to talk to him,” said Miss Daisy, opening her fan.  “She’s going to try to get Eugenio to talk to him.  But he isn’t afraid of Eugenio.  Eugenio’s a splendid courier, but he can’t make much impression on Randolph!  I don’t believe he’ll go to bed before eleven.”  It appeared that Randolph’s vigil was in fact triumphantly prolonged, for Winterbourne strolled about with the young girl for some time without meeting her mother.  “I have been looking round for that lady you want to introduce me to,” his companion resumed.  “She’s your aunt.”  Then, on Winterbourne’s admitting the fact and expressing some curiosity as to how she had learned it, she said she had heard all about Mrs. Costello from the chambermaid.  She was very quiet and very comme il faut; she wore white puffs; she spoke to no one, and she never dined at the table d’hote.  Every two days she had a headache.  “I think that’s a lovely description, headache and all!” said Miss Daisy, chattering along in her thin, gay voice.  “I want to know her ever so much.  I know just what your aunt would be; I know I should like her.  She would be very exclusive.  I like a lady to be exclusive; I’m dying to be exclusive myself.  Well, we are exclusive, mother and I. We don’t speak to everyone—­or they don’t speak to us.  I suppose it’s about the same thing.  Anyway, I shall be ever so glad to know your aunt.”

Winterbourne was embarrassed.  “She would be most happy,” he said; “but I am afraid those headaches will interfere.”

The young girl looked at him through the dusk.  “But I suppose she doesn’t have a headache every day,” she said sympathetically.