observations were not remarkable for logical consistency; for anything she wanted to say she was sure to find a pretext.  She found a great many pretexts in the rugged embrasures of Chillon for asking Winterbourne sudden questions about himself—­his family, his previous history, his tastes, his habits, his intentions—­and for supplying information upon corresponding points in her own personality.  Of her own tastes, habits, and intentions Miss Miller was prepared to give the most definite, and indeed the most favorable account.

“Well, I hope you know enough!” she said to her companion, after he had told her the history of the unhappy Bonivard.  “I never saw a man that knew so much!” The history of Bonivard had evidently, as they say, gone into one ear and out of the other.  But Daisy went on to say that she wished Winterbourne would travel with them and “go round” with them; they might know something, in that case.  “Don’t you want to come and teach Randolph?” she asked.  Winterbourne said that nothing could possibly please him so much, but that he unfortunately other occupations.  “Other occupations?  I don’t believe it!” said Miss Daisy.  “What do you mean?  You are not in business.”  The young man admitted that he was not in business; but he had engagements which, even within a day or two, would force him to go back to Geneva.  “Oh, bother!” she said; “I don’t believe it!” and she began to talk about something else.  But a few moments later, when he was pointing out to her the pretty design of an antique fireplace, she broke out irrelevantly, “You don’t mean to say you are going back to Geneva?”

“It is a melancholy fact that I shall have to return to Geneva tomorrow.”

“Well, Mr. Winterbourne,” said Daisy, “I think you’re horrid!”

“Oh, don’t say such dreadful things!” said Winterbourne—­“just at the last!”

“The last!” cried the young girl; “I call it the first.  I have half a mind to leave you here and go straight back to the hotel alone.”  And for the next ten minutes she did nothing but call him horrid.  Poor Winterbourne was fairly bewildered; no young lady had as yet done him the honor to be so agitated by the announcement of his movements.  His companion, after this, ceased to pay any attention to the curiosities of Chillon or the beauties of the lake; she opened fire upon the mysterious charmer in Geneva whom she appeared to have instantly taken it for granted that he was hurrying back to see.  How did Miss Daisy Miller know that there was a charmer in Geneva?  Winterbourne, who denied the existence of such a person, was quite unable to discover, and he was divided between amazement at the rapidity of her induction and amusement at the frankness of her persiflage.  She seemed to him, in all this, an extraordinary mixture of innocence and crudity.  “Does she never allow you more than three days at a time?” asked Daisy ironically.  “Doesn’t she give you a vacation in summer?  There’s