Winterbourne was silent a moment.  “She tells me she does,” he answered at last, not knowing what to say.

Miss Daisy Miller stopped and stood looking at him.  Her prettiness was still visible in the darkness; she was opening and closing her enormous fan.  “She doesn’t want to know me!” she said suddenly.  “Why don’t you say so?  You needn’t be afraid.  I’m not afraid!” And she gave a little laugh.

Winterbourne fancied there was a tremor in her voice; he was touched, shocked, mortified by it.  “My dear young lady,” he protested, “she knows no one.  It’s her wretched health.”

The young girl walked on a few steps, laughing still.  “You needn’t be afraid,” she repeated.  “Why should she want to know me?” Then she paused again; she was close to the parapet of the garden, and in front of her was the starlit lake.  There was a vague sheen upon its surface, and in the distance were dimly seen mountain forms.  Daisy Miller looked out upon the mysterious prospect and then she gave another little laugh.  “Gracious! she is exclusive!” she said.  Winterbourne wondered whether she was seriously wounded, and for a moment almost wished that her sense of injury might be such as to make it becoming in him to attempt to reassure and comfort her.  He had a pleasant sense that she would be very approachable for consolatory purposes.  He felt then, for the instant, quite ready to sacrifice his aunt, conversationally; to admit that she was a proud, rude woman, and to declare that they needn’t mind her.  But before he had time to commit himself to this perilous mixture of gallantry and impiety, the young lady, resuming her walk, gave an exclamation in quite another tone.  “Well, here’s Mother!  I guess she hasn’t got Randolph to go to bed.”  The figure of a lady appeared at a distance, very indistinct in the darkness, and advancing with a slow and wavering movement.  Suddenly it seemed to pause.

“Are you sure it is your mother?  Can you distinguish her in this thick dusk?” Winterbourne asked.

“Well!” cried Miss Daisy Miller with a laugh; “I guess I know my own mother.  And when she has got on my shawl, too!  She is always wearing my things.”

The lady in question, ceasing to advance, hovered vaguely about the spot at which she had checked her steps.

“I am afraid your mother doesn’t see you,” said Winterbourne.  “Or perhaps,” he added, thinking, with Miss Miller, the joke permissible—­“perhaps she feels guilty about your shawl.”

“Oh, it’s a fearful old thing!” the young girl replied serenely.  “I told her she could wear it.  She won’t come here because she sees you.”

“Ah, then,” said Winterbourne, “I had better leave you.”

“Oh, no; come on!” urged Miss Daisy Miller.

“I’m afraid your mother doesn’t approve of my walking with you.”