He was silent a moment; and then, “Yes, I believe it,” he said.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” she answered.  “Well, then—­I am not!”

The young girl and her cicerone were on their way to the gate of the enclosure, so that Winterbourne, who had but lately entered, presently took leave of them.  A week afterward he went to dine at a beautiful villa on the Caelian Hill, and, on arriving, dismissed his hired vehicle.  The evening was charming, and he promised himself the satisfaction of walking home beneath the Arch of Constantine and past the vaguely lighted monuments of the Forum.  There was a waning moon in the sky, and her radiance was not brilliant, but she was veiled in a thin cloud curtain which seemed to diffuse and equalize it.  When, on his return from the villa (it was eleven o’clock), Winterbourne approached the dusky circle of the Colosseum, it recurred to him, as a lover of the picturesque, that the interior, in the pale moonshine, would be well worth a glance.  He turned aside and walked to one of the empty arches, near which, as he observed, an open carriage—­one of the little Roman streetcabs—­was stationed.  Then he passed in, among the cavernous shadows of the great structure, and emerged upon the clear and silent arena.  The place had never seemed to him more impressive.  One-half of the gigantic circus was in deep shade, the other was sleeping in the luminous dusk.  As he stood there he began to murmur Byron’s famous lines, out of “Manfred,” but before he had finished his quotation he remembered that if nocturnal meditations in the Colosseum are recommended by the poets, they are deprecated by the doctors.  The historic atmosphere was there, certainly; but the historic atmosphere, scientifically considered, was no better than a villainous miasma.  Winterbourne walked to the middle of the arena, to take a more general glance, intending thereafter to make a hasty retreat.  The great cross in the center was covered with shadow; it was only as he drew near it that he made it out distinctly.  Then he saw that two persons were stationed upon the low steps which formed its base.  One of these was a woman, seated; her companion was standing in front of her.

Presently the sound of the woman’s voice came to him distinctly in the warm night air.  “Well, he looks at us as one of the old lions or tigers may have looked at the Christian martyrs!” These were the words he heard, in the familiar accent of Miss Daisy Miller.

“Let us hope he is not very hungry,” responded the ingenious Giovanelli.  “He will have to take me first; you will serve for dessert!”