FROM PART I

Winterbourne looked along the path and saw a beautiful young lady advancing.
“American girls are the best girls,” he said cheerfully to his young companion.
  “My sister ain’t the best!” the child declared. “She’s always blowing at me.”
  “I imagine that is your fault, not hers,” said Winterbourne. The young lady meanwhile had drawn near. She was dressed in white muslin, with a hundred frills and flounces, and knots of pale-colored ribbon. She was bareheaded, but she balanced in her hand a large parasol, with a deep border of embroidery; and she was strikingly, admirably pretty. “How pretty they are!” thought Winterbourne, straightening himself in his seat, as if he were prepared to rise.
  The young lady paused in front of his bench, near the parapet of the garden, which overlooked the lake. The little boy had now converted his alpenstock into a vaulting pole, by the aid of which he was springing about in the gravel and kicking it up not a little.
  The young lady paused in front of his bench, near the parapet of the garden, which overlooked the lake. The little boy had now converted his alpenstock into a vaulting pole, by the aid of which he was springing about in the gravel and kicking it up not a little.
  “Randolph,” said the young lady, “what ARE you doing?”
  “I’m going up the Alps,” replied Randolph. “This is the way!” And he gave another little jump, scattering the pebbles about Winterbourne’s ears.
  “That’s the way they come down,” said Winterbourne.
  “He’s an American man!” cried Randolph, in his little hard voice.
  The young lady gave no heed to this announcement, but looked straight at her brother. “Well, I guess you had better be quiet,” she simply observed.
  It seemed to Winterbourne that he had been in a manner presented…

FROM THE FIRST MEETING:

I turned round to look at her, and saw that there was a faint flush in each of her cheeks. She was waving her little fan to and fro. Instead of looking at me she fixed her eyes upon the other portfolio, which was leaning against the table.
  “Won’t you show me that?” she asked, with a little tremor in her voice. I could almost have believed she was agitated
  “With pleasure,” I answered, “if you are not tired.”
  “No, I am not tired,” she affirmed. “I like it—I love it.”
  And as I took up the other portfolio she laid her hand upon it, rubbing it softly.
  “And have you been here too?” she asked.
  On my opening the portfolio it appeared that I had been there. One of the first photographs was a large view of the Castle of Chillon, on the Lake of Geneva.
  “Here,” I said, “I have been many a time. Is it not beautiful?” And I pointed to the perfect reflection of the rugged rocks and pointed towers in the clear still water. She did not say, “Oh, enchanting!” and push it away to see the next picture. She looked awhile, and then she asked if it was not where Bonnivard, about whom Byron wrote, was confined. I assented, and tried to quote some of Byron’s verses, but in this attempt I succeeded imperfectly.
  She fanned herself a moment, and then repeated the lines correctly in a soft, flat, and yet agreeable voice. By the time she had finished she was blushing…