various features—­her complexion, her nose, her ears, her teeth.  He had a great relish for feminine beauty; he was addicted to observing and analyzing it; and as regards this young lady’s face he made several observations.  It was not at all insipid, but it was not exactly expressive; and though it was eminently delicate, Winterbourne mentally accused it—­very forgivingly—­of a want of finish.  He thought it very possible that Master Randolph’s sister was a coquette; he was sure she had a spirit of her own; but in her bright, sweet, superficial little visage there was no mockery, no irony.  Before long it became obvious that she was much disposed toward conversation.  She told him that they were going to Rome for the winter—­she and her mother and Randolph.  She asked him if he was a “real American”; she shouldn’t have taken him for one; he seemed more like a German—­this was said after a little hesitation—­ especially when he spoke.  Winterbourne, laughing, answered that he had met Germans who spoke like Americans, but that he had not, so far as he remembered, met an American who spoke like a German.  Then he asked her if she should not be more comfortable in sitting upon the bench which he had just quitted.  She answered that she liked standing up and walking about; but she presently sat down.  She told him she was from New York State—­“if you know where that is.”  Winterbourne learned more about her by catching hold of her small, slippery brother and making him stand a few minutes by his side.

“Tell me your name, my boy,” he said.

“Randolph C. Miller,” said the boy sharply.  “And I’ll tell you her name”; and he leveled his alpenstock at his sister.

“You had better wait till you are asked!” said this young lady calmly.

“I should like very much to know your name,” said Winterbourne.

“Her name is Daisy Miller!” cried the child.  “But that isn’t her real name; that isn’t her name on her cards.”

“It’s a pity you haven’t got one of my cards!” said Miss Miller.

“Her real name is Annie P. Miller,” the boy went on.

“Ask him his name,” said his sister, indicating Winterbourne.

But on this point Randolph seemed perfectly indifferent;
he continued to supply information with regard to his own family. 
“My father’s name is Ezra B. Miller,” he announced. 
“My father ain’t in Europe; my father’s in a better
place than Europe.”

Winterbourne imagined for a moment that this was the manner in which the child had been taught to intimate that Mr. Miller had been removed to the sphere of celestial reward.  But Randolph immediately added, “My father’s in Schenectady.  He’s got a big business.  My father’s rich, you bet!”

“Well!” ejaculated Miss Miller, lowering her parasol and looking at the embroidered border.  Winterbourne presently released the child, who departed, dragging his alpenstock along the path.  “He doesn’t like Europe,” said the young girl.  “He wants to go back.”