He was ceasing to be embarrassed, for he had begun to perceive that she was not in the last embarrassed herself.
If she looked another way when he spoke to her, and seemed not particularly to hear him, this was simply her habit, her manner.
The news that Daisy Miller was surrounded by half a dozen wonderful moustaches checked Winterbourne’s impulse to go straightway to see her. He had perhaps not definitely flattered himself that he had made an ineffaceable impression upon her heart, but he was annoyed at hearing of a state of affairs so little in harmony with an image that had lately flitted in and out of his own meditations; the image of a very pretty girl looking out of an old Roman window and asking herself urgently when Mr Winterbourne would arrive.
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