"What are you doing, poking round here?" this young lady inquired,
but by no means with that harshness of accent which her choice
of words may imply.
"I don't know," said her mother, turning toward the lake again.
"I shouldn't think you'd want that shawl!" Daisy exclaimed.
"Well I do!" her mother answered with a little laugh.
"Did you get Randolph to go to bed?" asked the young girl.
"No; I couldn't induce him," said Mrs. Miller very gently.
"He wants to talk to the waiter. He likes to talk to that waiter."
"I was telling Mr. Winterbourne," the young girl went on;
and to the young man's ear her tone might have indicated
that she had been uttering his name all her life.
"Oh, yes!" said Winterbourne; "I have the pleasure of knowing your son."
Randolph's mamma was silent; she turned her attention to the lake.
But at last she spoke. "Well, I don't see how he lives!"
"Anyhow, it isn't so bad as it was at Dover," said Daisy Miller.
"And what occurred at Dover?" Winterbourne asked.
"He wouldn't go to bed at all. I guess he sat up all night
in the public parlor. He wasn't in bed at twelve o'clock:
I know that.
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