“Do I mean to speak to him?  Why, you don’t suppose I mean to communicate by signs?”

“Pray understand, then,” said Winterbourne, “that I intend to remain with you.”

Daisy stopped and looked at him, without a sign of troubled consciousness in her face, with nothing but the presence of her charming eyes and her happy dimples.  “Well, she’s a cool one!” thought the young man.

“I don’t like the way you say that,” said Daisy.  “It’s too imperious.”

“I beg your pardon if I say it wrong.  The main point is to give you an idea of my meaning.”

The young girl looked at him more gravely, but with eyes that were prettier than ever.  “I have never allowed a gentleman to dictate to me, or to interfere with anything I do.”

“I think you have made a mistake,” said Winterbourne.  “You should sometimes listen to a gentleman—­the right one.”

Daisy began to laugh again.  “I do nothing but listen to gentlemen!” she exclaimed.  “Tell me if Mr. Giovanelli is the right one?”

The gentleman with the nosegay in his bosom had now perceived our two friends, and was approaching the young girl with obsequious rapidity.  He bowed to Winterbourne as well as to the latter’s companion; he had a brilliant smile, an intelligent eye; Winterbourne thought him not a bad-looking fellow.  But he nevertheless said to Daisy, “No, he’s not the right one.”

Daisy evidently had a natural talent for performing introductions; she mentioned the name of each of her companions to the other.  She strolled alone with one of them on each side of her; Mr. Giovanelli, who spoke English very cleverly—­Winterbourne afterward learned that he had practiced the idiom upon a great many American heiresses—­ addressed her a great deal of very polite nonsense; he was extremely urbane, and the young American, who said nothing, reflected upon that profundity of Italian cleverness which enables people to appear more gracious in proportion as they are more acutely disappointed.  Giovanelli, of course, had counted upon something more intimate; he had not bargained for a party of three.  But he kept his temper in a manner which suggested far-stretching intentions.  Winterbourne flattered himself that he had taken his measure.  “He is not a gentleman,” said the young American; “he is only a clever imitation of one.  He is a music master, or a penny-a-liner, or a third-rate artist.  D__n his good looks!” Mr. Giovanelli had certainly a very pretty face; but Winterbourne felt a superior indignation at his own lovely fellow countrywoman’s not knowing the difference between a spurious gentleman and a real one.  Giovanelli chattered and jested and made himself wonderfully agreeable.  It was true that, if he was an imitation, the imitation was brilliant.  “Nevertheless,” Winterbourne said to himself, “a nice girl ought to know!” And then he came back to the question whether this was, in fact, a nice girl.  Would a nice girl,