“It’s a pity these rooms are so small; we can’t dance,” she said to Winterbourne, as if she had seen him five minutes before.

“I am not sorry we can’t dance,” Winterbourne answered; “I don’t dance.”

“Of course you don’t dance; you’re too stiff,” said Miss Daisy.  “I hope you enjoyed your drive with Mrs. Walker!”

“No.  I didn’t enjoy it; I preferred walking with you.”

“We paired off:  that was much better,” said Daisy. 
“But did you ever hear anything so cool as Mrs. Walker’s
wanting me to get into her carriage and drop poor
Mr. Giovanelli, and under the pretext that it was proper? 
People have different ideas!  It would have been most unkind;
he had been talking about that walk for ten days.”

“He should not have talked about it at all,” said Winterbourne; “he would never have proposed to a young lady of this country to walk about the streets with him.”

“About the streets?” cried Daisy with her pretty stare.  “Where, then, would he have proposed to her to walk?  The Pincio is not the streets, either; and I, thank goodness, am not a young lady of this country.  The young ladies of this country have a dreadfully poky time of it, so far as I can learn; I don’t see why I should change my habits for them.”

“I am afraid your habits are those of a flirt,” said Winterbourne gravely.

“Of course they are,” she cried, giving him her little smiling stare again.  “I’m a fearful, frightful flirt!  Did you ever hear of a nice girl that was not?  But I suppose you will tell me now that I am not a nice girl.”

“You’re a very nice girl; but I wish you would flirt with me, and me only,” said Winterbourne.

“Ah! thank you—­thank you very much; you are the last man I should think of flirting with.  As I have had the pleasure of informing you, you are too stiff.”

“You say that too often,” said Winterbourne.

Daisy gave a delighted laugh.  “If I could have the sweet hope of making you angry, I should say it again.”

“Don’t do that; when I am angry I’m stiffer than ever.  But if you won’t flirt with me, do cease, at least, to flirt with your friend at the piano; they don’t understand that sort of thing here.”

“I thought they understood nothing else!” exclaimed Daisy.

“Not in young unmarried women.”

“It seems to me much more proper in young unmarried women than in old married ones,” Daisy declared.

“Well,” said Winterbourne, “when you deal with natives you must go by the custom of the place.  Flirting is a purely American custom; it doesn’t exist here.  So when you show yourself in public with Mr. Giovanelli, and without your mother—­”

“Gracious! poor Mother!” interposed Daisy.

“Though you may be flirting, Mr. Giovanelli is not; he means something else.”

“He isn’t preaching, at any rate,” said Daisy with vivacity.  “And if you want very much to know, we are neither of us flirting; we are too good friends for that:  we are very intimate friends.”