“He’s an Italian,” Daisy pursued with the prettiest serenity.  “He’s a great friend of mine; he’s the handsomest man in the world—­ except Mr. Winterbourne!  He knows plenty of Italians, but he wants to know some Americans.  He thinks ever so much of Americans.  He’s tremendously clever.  He’s perfectly lovely!”

It was settled that this brilliant personage should be brought to Mrs. Walker’s party, and then Mrs. Miller prepared to take her leave.  “I guess we’ll go back to the hotel,” she said.

“You may go back to the hotel, Mother, but I’m going to take a walk,” said Daisy.

“She’s going to walk with Mr. Giovanelli,” Randolph proclaimed.

“I am going to the Pincio,” said Daisy, smiling.

“Alone, my dear—­at this hour?” Mrs. Walker asked. 
The afternoon was drawing to a close—­it was the hour for
the throng of carriages and of contemplative pedestrians. 
“I don’t think it’s safe, my dear,” said Mrs. Walker.

“Neither do I,” subjoined Mrs. Miller.  “You’ll get the fever, as sure as you live.  Remember what Dr. Davis told you!”

“Give her some medicine before she goes,” said Randolph.

The company had risen to its feet; Daisy, still showing her pretty teeth, bent over and kissed her hostess.  “Mrs. Walker, you are too perfect,” she said.  “I’m not going alone; I am going to meet a friend.”

“Your friend won’t keep you from getting the fever,”
Mrs. Miller observed.

“Is it Mr. Giovanelli?” asked the hostess.

Winterbourne was watching the young girl; at this question his attention quickened.  She stood there, smiling and smoothing her bonnet ribbons; she glanced at Winterbourne.  Then, while she glanced and smiled, she answered, without a shade of hesitation, “Mr. Giovanelli—­the beautiful Giovanelli.”

“My dear young friend,” said Mrs. Walker, taking her hand pleadingly, “don’t walk off to the Pincio at this hour to meet a beautiful Italian.”

“Well, he speaks English,” said Mrs. Miller.

“Gracious me!” Daisy exclaimed, “I don’t to do anything improper.  There’s an easy way to settle it.”  She continued to glance at Winterbourne.  “The Pincio is only a hundred yards distant; and if Mr. Winterbourne were as polite as he pretends, he would offer to walk with me!”

Winterbourne’s politeness hastened to affirm itself, and the young girl gave him gracious leave to accompany her.  They passed downstairs before her mother, and at the door Winterbourne perceived Mrs. Miller’s carriage drawn up, with the ornamental courier whose acquaintance he had made at Vevey seated within.  “Goodbye, Eugenio!” cried Daisy; “I’m going to take a walk.”  The distance from the Via Gregoriana to the beautiful garden at the other end of the Pincian Hill is, in fact, rapidly traversed.  As the day was splendid, however, and the concourse of vehicles, walkers, and loungers numerous, the young Americans found their