“To Schenectady, you mean?”

“Yes; he wants to go right home.  He hasn’t got any boys here.  There is one boy here, but he always goes round with a teacher; they won’t let him play.”

“And your brother hasn’t any teacher?” Winterbourne inquired.

“Mother thought of getting him one, to travel round with us.  There was a lady told her of a very good teacher; an American lady—­perhaps you know her—­Mrs. Sanders.  I think she came from Boston.  She told her of this teacher, and we thought of getting him to travel round with us.  But Randolph said he didn’t want a teacher traveling round with us.  He said he wouldn’t have lessons when he was in the cars.  And we are in the cars about half the time.  There was an English lady we met in the cars—­I think her name was Miss Featherstone; perhaps you know her.  She wanted to know why I didn’t give Randolph lessons—­give him ‘instruction,’ she called it.  I guess he could give me more instruction than I could give him.  He’s very smart.”

“Yes,” said Winterbourne; “he seems very smart.”

“Mother’s going to get a teacher for him as soon as we get to Italy.  Can you get good teachers in Italy?”

“Very good, I should think,” said Winterbourne.

“Or else she’s going to find some school.  He ought to learn some more.  He’s only nine.  He’s going to college.”  And in this way Miss Miller continued to converse upon the affairs of her family and upon other topics.  She sat there with her extremely pretty hands, ornamented with very brilliant rings, folded in her lap, and with her pretty eyes now resting upon those of Winterbourne, now wandering over the garden, the people who passed by, and the beautiful view.  She talked to Winterbourne as if she had known him a long time.  He found it very pleasant.  It was many years since he had heard a young girl talk so much.  It might have been said of this unknown young lady, who had come and sat down beside him upon a bench, that she chattered.  She was very quiet; she sat in a charming, tranquil attitude; but her lips and her eyes were constantly moving.  She had a soft, slender, agreeable voice, and her tone was decidedly sociable.  She gave Winterbourne a history of her movements and intentions and those of her mother and brother, in Europe, and enumerated, in particular, the various hotels at which they had stopped.  “That English lady in the cars,” she said—­“Miss Featherstone—­ asked me if we didn’t all live in hotels in America.  I told her I had never been in so many hotels in my life as since I came to Europe.  I have never seen so many—­it’s nothing but hotels.”  But Miss Miller did not make this remark with a querulous accent; she appeared to be in the best humor with everything.  She declared that the hotels were very good, when once you got used to their ways, and that Europe was perfectly sweet.  She was not disappointed—­not a bit.  Perhaps it was because she had heard so much about it before.  She had ever so many intimate friends that had been there ever so many times.  And then she had had ever so many dresses and things from Paris.  Whenever she put on a Paris dress she felt as if she were in Europe.