Daisy Miller (Modern Library Classics) by Henry James

Author:Henry James [James, Henry]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
ISBN: 9781588362322
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2011-12-21T06:00:00+00:00

IV

He flattered himself on the following day that there was no smiling among the servants when he at least asked for Mrs. Miller at her hotel. This lady and her daughter, however, were not at home; and on the next day after, repeating his visit, Winterbourne again was met by a denial. Mrs. Walker’s party took place on the evening of the third day, and in spite of the final reserves that had marked his last interview with that social critic our young man was among the guests. Mrs. Walker was one of those pilgrims from the younger world who, while in contact with the elder, make a point, in their own phrase, of studying European society; and she had on this occasion collected several specimens of diversely-born humanity to serve, as might be, for text-books. When Winterbourne arrived the little person he desired most to find wasn’t there; but in a few moments he saw Mrs. Miller come in alone, very shyly and ruefully. This lady’s hair, above the dead waste of her temples, was more frizzled than ever. As she approached their hostess Winterbourne also drew near.

“You see I’ve come all alone,” said Daisy’s unsupported parent. “I’m so frightened I don’t know what to do; it’s the first time I’ve ever been to a party alone—especially in this country. I wanted to bring Randolph or Eugenio or some one, but Daisy just pushed me off by myself. I ain’t used to going round alone.”

“And doesn’t your daughter intend to favour us with her society?” Mrs. Walker impressively enquired.

“Well, Daisy’s all dressed,” Mrs. Miller testified with that accent of the dispassionate, if not of the philosophic, historian with which she always recorded the current incidents of her daughter’s career. “She got dressed on purpose before dinner. But she has a friend of hers there; that gentleman—the handsomest of the Italians—that she wanted to bring. They’ve got going at the piano—it seems as if they couldn’t leave off. Mr. Giovanelli does sing splendidly. But I guess they’ll come before very long,” Mrs. Miller hopefully concluded.

“I’m sorry she should come—in that particular way,” Mrs. Walker permitted herself to observe.

“Well, I told her there was no use in her getting dressed before dinner if she was going to wait three hours,” returned Daisy’s mamma. “I didn’t see the use of her putting on such a dress as that to sit round with Mr. Giovanelli.”

“This is most horrible!” said Mrs. Walker, turning away and addressing herself to Winterbourne. “Elle s’affiche, la malheureuse.1 It’s her revenge for my having ventured to remonstrate with her. When she comes I shan’t speak to her.”

Daisy came after eleven o’clock, but she wasn’t, on such an occasion, a young lady to wait to be spoken to. She rustled forward in radiant loveliness, smiling and chattering, carrying a large bouquet and attended by Mr. Giovanelli. Every one stopped talking and turned and looked at her while she floated up to Mrs. Walker. “I’m afraid you thought I never was coming, so I sent mother off to tell you.

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