“Well, we’ve got to turn the right way some time,” said Mrs. Miller with a little laugh.  Winterbourne expressed the hope that her daughter at least found some gratification in Rome, and she declared that Daisy was quite carried away.  “It’s on account of the society—­the society’s splendid.  She goes round everywhere; she has made a great number of acquaintances.  Of course she goes round more than I do.  I must say they have been very sociable; they have taken her right in.  And then she knows a great many gentlemen.  Oh, she thinks there’s nothing like Rome.  Of course, it’s a great deal pleasanter for a young lady if she knows plenty of gentlemen.”

By this time Daisy had turned her attention again to Winterbourne.  “I’ve been telling Mrs. Walker how mean you were!” the young girl announced.

“And what is the evidence you have offered?” asked Winterbourne, rather annoyed at Miss Miller’s want of appreciation of the zeal of an admirer who on his way down to Rome had stopped neither at Bologna nor at Florence, simply because of a certain sentimental impatience.  He remembered that a cynical compatriot had once told him that American women—­the pretty ones, and this gave a largeness to the axiom—­ were at once the most exacting in the world and the least endowed with a sense of indebtedness.

“Why, you were awfully mean at Vevey,” said Daisy. 
“You wouldn’t do anything.  You wouldn’t stay there when
I asked you.”

“My dearest young lady,” cried Winterbourne, with eloquence, “have I come all the way to Rome to encounter your reproaches?”

“Just hear him say that!” said Daisy to her hostess, giving a twist to a bow on this lady’s dress.  “Did you ever hear anything so quaint?”

“So quaint, my dear?” murmured Mrs. Walker in the tone of a partisan of Winterbourne.

“Well, I don’t know,” said Daisy, fingering Mrs. Walker’s ribbons.  “Mrs. Walker, I want to tell you something.”

“Mother-r,” interposed Randolph, with his rough ends to his words, “I tell you you’ve got to go.  Eugenio’ll raise—­something!”

“I’m not afraid of Eugenio,” said Daisy with a toss of her head.  “Look here, Mrs. Walker,” she went on, “you know I’m coming to your party.”

“I am delighted to hear it.”

“I’ve got a lovely dress!”

“I am very sure of that.”

“But I want to ask a favor—­permission to bring a friend.”

“I shall be happy to see any of your friends,” said Mrs. Walker, turning with a smile to Mrs. Miller.

“Oh, they are not my friends,” answered Daisy’s mamma, smiling shyly in her own fashion.  “I never spoke to them.”

“It’s an intimate friend of mine—­Mr. Giovanelli,” said Daisy without a tremor in her clear little voice or a shadow on her brilliant little face.

Mrs. Walker was silent a moment; she gave a rapid glance at Winterbourne.  “I shall be glad to see Mr. Giovanelli,” she then said.