Winterbourne went often to ask for news of her, and once he saw Mrs. Miller, who, though deeply alarmed, was, rather to his surprise, perfectly composed, and, as it appeared, a most efficient and judicious nurse.  She talked a good deal about Dr. Davis, but Winterbourne paid her the compliment of saying to himself that she was not, after all, such a monstrous goose.  “Daisy spoke of you the other day,” she said to him.  “Half the time she doesn’t know what she’s saying, but that time I think she did.  She gave me a message she told me to tell you.  She told me to tell you that she never was engaged to that handsome Italian.  I am sure I am very glad; Mr. Giovanelli hasn’t been near us since she was taken ill.  I thought he was so much of a gentleman; but I don’t call that very polite!  A lady told me that he was afraid I was angry with him for taking Daisy round at night.  Well, so I am, but I suppose he knows I’m a lady.  I would scorn to scold him.  Anyway, she says she’s not engaged.  I don’t know why she wanted you to know, but she said to me three times, ‘Mind you tell Mr. Winterbourne.’  And then she told me to ask if you remembered the time you went to that castle in Switzerland.  But I said I wouldn’t give any such messages as that.  Only, if she is not engaged, I’m sure I’m glad to know it.”

But, as Winterbourne had said, it mattered very little.  A week after this, the poor girl died; it had been a terrible case of the fever.  Daisy’s grave was in the little Protestant cemetery, in an angle of the wall of imperial Rome, beneath the cypresses and the thick spring flowers.  Winterbourne stood there beside it, with a number of other mourners, a number larger than the scandal excited by the young lady’s career would have led you to expect.  Near him stood Giovanelli, who came nearer still before Winterbourne turned away.  Giovanelli was very pale:  on this occasion he had no flower in his buttonhole; he seemed to wish to say something.  At last he said, “She was the most beautiful young lady I ever saw, and the most amiable”; and then he added in a moment, “and she was the most innocent.”

Winterbourne looked at him and presently repeated his words, “And the most innocent?”

“The most innocent!”

Winterbourne felt sore and angry.  “Why the devil,” he asked, “did you take her to that fatal place?”

Mr. Giovanelli’s urbanity was apparently imperturbable.  He looked on the ground a moment, and then he said, “For myself I had no fear; and she wanted to go.”

“That was no reason!” Winterbourne declared.

The subtle Roman again dropped his eyes.  “If she had lived, I should have got nothing.  She would never have married me, I am sure.”

“She would never have married you?”

“For a moment I hoped so.  But no.  I am sure.”

Winterbourne listened to him:  he stood staring at the raw protuberance among the April daisies.  When he turned away again, Mr. Giovanelli, with his light, slow step, had retired.