but Winterbourne’s companion found time to say a great many things.  To the young man himself their little excursion was so much of an escapade—­an adventure—­ that, even allowing for her habitual sense of freedom, he had some expectation of seeing her regard it in the same way.  But it must be confessed that, in this particular, he was disappointed.  Daisy Miller was extremely animated, she was in charming spirits; but she was apparently not at all excited; she was not fluttered; she avoided neither his eyes nor those of anyone else; she blushed neither when she looked at him nor when she felt that people were looking at her.  People continued to look at her a great deal, and Winterbourne took much satisfaction in his pretty companion’s distinguished air.  He had been a little afraid that she would talk loud, laugh overmuch, and even, perhaps, desire to move about the boat a good deal.  But he quite forgot his fears; he sat smiling, with his eyes upon her face, while, without moving from her place, she delivered herself of a great number of original reflections.  It was the most charming garrulity he had ever heard. he had assented to the idea that she was “common”; but was she so, after all, or was he simply getting used to her commonness?  Her conversation was chiefly of what metaphysicians term the objective cast, but every now and then it took a subjective turn.

“What on earth are you so grave about?” she suddenly demanded, fixing her agreeable eyes upon Winterbourne’s.

“Am I grave?” he asked.  “I had an idea I was grinning from ear to ear.”

“You look as if you were taking me to a funeral.  If that’s a grin, your ears are very near together.”

“Should you like me to dance a hornpipe on the deck?”

“Pray do, and I’ll carry round your hat.  It will pay the expenses of our journey.”

“I never was better pleased in my life,” murmured Winterbourne.

She looked at him a moment and then burst into a little laugh.  “I like to make you say those things!  You’re a queer mixture!”

In the castle, after they had landed, the subjective element decidedly prevailed.  Daisy tripped about the vaulted chambers, rustled her skirts in the corkscrew staircases, flirted back with a pretty little cry and a shudder from the edge of the oubliettes, and turned a singularly well-shaped ear to everything that Winterbourne told her about the place.  But he saw that she cared very little for feudal antiquities and that the dusky traditions of Chillon made but a slight impression upon her.  They had the good fortune to have been able to walk about without other companionship than that of the custodian; and Winterbourne arranged with this functionary that they should not be hurried—­ that they should linger and pause wherever they chose.  The custodian interpreted the bargain generously—­Winterbourne, on his side, had been generous—­and ended by leaving them quite to themselves.  Miss Miller’s