Your eyes upon the page may fall, More like the page will miss your eyes; You may be listening after all, So goes he singing till he dies. II. _From the Hon. Cecil Bertie to the Lady Guinevere_. Mr. Cecil Tremayne, who served “Under Two Flags,” an officer in her Majesty’s Guards, describes to the Lady Guinevere the circumstances of his encounter with Miss Annie P. (or Daisy) Miller. The incident has been omitted by Ouida and Mr. Henry James. YOU ask me, Camarada, what I think of the little American _donzella_, Daisy Miller? _Hesterna Rosa_, I may cry with the blind old bard of Tusculum; or shall we say, _Hesterna Margaritæ_? Yesterday’s Daisy, yesterday’s Rose, were it of Pæstum, who values it to-day? _Mais où sont les neiges d’automne_? However, yesterday—the day before yesterday, rather—Miss Annie P. Miller was well enough. We were smoking at the club windows on the Ponte Vecchio; Marmalada, Giovanelli of the Bersaglieri, young Ponto of the K.O.B.’s, and myself—men who never give a thought save to the gold embroidery of their _pantoufles_ or the exquisite ebon laquer of their Russia leather cricket-shoes. Suddenly we heard a clatter in the streets. The riderless chargers of the Bersaglieri were racing down the Santo Croce, and just turning, with a swing and shriek of clattering spurs, into the Maremma. In the midst of the street, under our very window, was a little thing like a butterfly, with _yeux de pervenche_. You remember, Camarada, Voltaire’s love of the _pervenche_; we have plucked it, have we not? in his garden of Les Charmettes. _Nous n’irons plus aux bois_! _Basta_! But to return. There she stood, terror-stricken, petrified, like her who of old turned her back on Zoar and beheld the incandescent hurricane of hail smite the City of the Plain! She was dressed in white muslin, _joli comme un cœur_, with a myriad frills and flounces and knots of pale-coloured ribbon. Open-eyed, open-mouthed, she stared at the tide of foaming steeds, like a maiden martyr gazing at the on-rushing waves of ocean! “Caramba!” said Marmalada, “voilà une jeune fille pas trop bien gardée!” Giovanelli turned pale, and, muttering _Corpo di Bacco_, quaffed a _carafon_ of green Chartreuse, holding at least a quart, which stood by him in its native pewter. Young Ponto merely muttered, “Egad!” I leaped through the open window and landed at her feet.