Winterbourne reflected for an instant as lucidly as possible—­ “we” could only mean Miss Daisy Miller and himself.  This program seemed almost too agreeable for credence; he felt as if he ought to kiss the young lady’s hand.  Possibly he would have done so and quite spoiled the project, but at this moment another person, presumably Eugenio, appeared.  A tall, handsome man, with superb whiskers, wearing a velvet morning coat and a brilliant watch chain, approached Miss Miller, looking sharply at her companion.  “Oh, Eugenio!” said Miss Miller with the friendliest accent.

Eugenio had looked at Winterbourne from head to foot; he now bowed gravely to the young lady.  “I have the honor to inform mademoiselle that luncheon is upon the table.”

Miss Miller slowly rose.  “See here, Eugenio!” she said; “I’m going to that old castle, anyway.”

“To the Chateau de Chillon, mademoiselle?” the courier inquired.  “Mademoiselle has made arrangements?” he added in a tone which struck Winterbourne as very impertinent.

Eugenio’s tone apparently threw, even to Miss Miller’s own apprehension, a slightly ironical light upon the young girl’s situation.  She turned to Winterbourne, blushing a little—­a very little.  “You won’t back out?” she said.

“I shall not be happy till we go!” he protested.

“And you are staying in this hotel?” she went on. 
“And you are really an American?”

The courier stood looking at Winterbourne offensively.  The young man, at least, thought his manner of looking an offense to Miss Miller; it conveyed an imputation that she “picked up” acquaintances.  “I shall have the honor of presenting to you a person who will tell you all about me,” he said, smiling and referring to his aunt.

“Oh, well, we’ll go some day,” said Miss Miller.  And she gave him a smile and turned away.  She put up her parasol and walked back to the inn beside Eugenio.  Winterbourne stood looking after her; and as she moved away, drawing her muslin furbelows over the gravel, said to himself that she had the tournure of a princess.

He had, however, engaged to do more than proved feasible, in promising to present his aunt, Mrs. Costello, to Miss Daisy Miller.  As soon as the former lady had got better of her headache, he waited upon her in her apartment; and, after the proper inquiries in regard to her health, he asked her if she had observed in the hotel an American family—­a mamma, a daughter, and a little boy.

“And a courier?” said Mrs. Costello.  “Oh yes, I have observed them.  Seen them—­heard them—­and kept out of their way.”  Mrs. Costello was a widow with a fortune; a person of much distinction, who frequently intimated that, if she were not so dreadfully liable to sick headaches, she would probably have left a deeper impress upon her time.  She had a long, pale face, a high nose, and a great deal of very striking white hair, which she wore in large puffs and rouleaux over the