"Dining in a little trattoria with--"

"Anyone I know?"

Boris nodded and I guessed at once that he meant Carlo but preferred not to say so definitely.

So I took the hint and kept a careful lookout for a few days, and sure enough, there she was, hanging about or strolling past every time that Carlo came to visit me. Once the captain who had just been calling on me, stopped and spoke to her; he appeared to be angry. So I took the Prince, who had dropped in, and we shadowed them home, quite delighted with ourselves and our adventure, until they separated, he striding away surlily and she looking after him until he turned the corner. Then she went into a tumbled-down house.

"Signor, who lives there?" I asked of a neighbor lounging on his steps.

"The gardener of Capitano Carlo," he told me politely. So there was all my evidence, and the next time we met I told my Italian Captain about the letter and that I had discovered the author of it. He admitted that I was probably right, and that it sounded like his gardener's daughter.

She was jealous of me, evidently, but he didn't seem at all put out about it,--in fact I think it rather tickled his vanity. People say the poor girl is half mad about him.

Carlo is now in an army prison for having been seen at the Marquis'

dance when he was supposed to be on the sick list. He writes me he will go to South Africa if I won't be good to him.

This afternoon we got our things together to give our American Dip--short for diplomat--a surprise party at his rooms. But he had found out somehow or other, and as we entered we saw a large sign, "WELCOME, SURPRISE PARTY," and in other places there were drawings representing "the joyous hand" and "the joyous eye," and besides these, a notice saying that suspicious people had been seen about the place. He is very original and clever. The dinner was awfully jolly and we had great fun as people always do at his parties. Thank Heaven, Mona Lisa was not there.

After it was all over we drove to the Coliseum, for the moon was full.

A. D. and I wandered round; it was a beautiful night, the great amphitheatre all gleaming silver. I hadn't seen any old moonlit ruins since Karnak on the Nile, and there wasn't any nice young man to see that with. He is such a dear, but a flirt, and I'm sure he's engaged to Madame Mona Lisa with the lovely gray cat's eyes. I wish he were half as devoted to me as the Prince is--no, I don't either, but there isn't any rubber on my pencil, so I can't erase it.

What a country for love and romance! Even the Americans are affected by it. Poor wild-eyed Pittsburgo shot and killed himself today in his room in front of the portrait of the beautiful Italian singer. I am terribly shocked and can hardly believe it is true. Some people thought he was in love with me because he came so often to our apartment, and just to make some fun, I wore his ring for a time. All Rome is talking. Poor old Pittsburgo!

This evening I went to the American Emba.s.sy--a large dinner of thirty or more people in a lovely big dining room, and with beautiful silver plates and then gold plates--the first time in my life I ever ate from gold plates. The Amba.s.sador was specially nice to me. I tried to pump him about Mona Lisa but didn't get much. I wish she would leave Rome.

Our Dip is rather a puzzler--he just keeps me guessing. I don't know whether he is engaged to the divorcee or not. I must admit she's rather fascinating and she has had a sad history, he says. We went on to the Princess Pallavacini's evening reception--he spent the entire time with Mona. Of course she and I didn't speak or even bow. Aunt likes him but still prefers a t.i.tled foreigner every time.

The Prince was at the reception, too, but I managed to spend most of my spare time flirting with Marquis Gonzaga; he talks a lot but is not so amusing as the Prince. Boris declares he is going to follow me about Europe. Aunt is taking us first to Sorrento and then Florence--after that, the Lord knows where! He is more ardent than ever, so I bet Checkers a hat I'd make Boris propose before I left Rome. I like him better than I did. Checkers says I'm getting used to foreigners.

PRINCE BORIS TO POLLY

_Rome, February._

Darling Miss,

Have you really decide not to let me follow you? If it so, your heart is darker than the Black Forest and you are more wicked as the bears that live there, and if one of those bears eat you, I will say, "So much the better." But when they see you, I fear they will only lick your hands. Perhaps it is you do not understand the tender language of love belonging to the old countries, you who come from so far away new America? Maybe only way to make you love me is with the rough language of the savage and the hard hand of the brute. I would like to tear the delicate feathers off the hummingbird to punish her. _Bozhe moi!_ But I would like to beat you!

It has been said once I resemble D'Artagnan and perhaps you are afraid of me, afraid of what Spaniards call a _furia francesa_. Perhaps you feel I carry you off like a hero of antiquity--Paris, I think--took Helena away.

You are making game of me. I am very furious. I have try lately to console myself to find another woman, as much as it is possible like my hummingbird. I look but cannot find her. I have treasure long time the only thing I have had that was of you--the handkerchief. But today the handkerchief it is gone and not to be found. I have sorrow like for the loss of a dear friend.

Here I am alone, with thirty people in the hotel, and not one of them hummingbirds. I am weary and think often of you. I would give them all for having you.

JOURNAL CONTINUED

_Rome, March._

Hurrah! I have won the hat from Checkers. When the Prince came to say goodbye, he proposed. "Some speed to that boy," says Brother. Of course I refused him. Oh, if Aunt knew, she would be madder than a wet hen. But Boris swears he won't take no for an answer, "You mock me like wicked Pagan girl that you are. But I love Pagans. I meet you in Paris before you sail for America."

We are leaving Rome tomorrow. A. D. and I had a long talk on the terrace and just a wee bit of nonsense. He wants to spend next Sunday with us at Sorrento. I told him to come along. Thank Heaven the divorcee has left Rome at last.

Carlo also asked to be allowed to come to Sorrento, but I don't want him to, and so there's an end to that. He can have his Italian girl.

I wonder if Peppi will turn up, for Aunt's portrait is finished and she likes it. It ought to be good after those long sittings.

It has amused me to lead these foreigners all on, but it is dangerous to play with fire. Gonzaga remarked today, "My mother says me marry my cousin, a Spanish countess, but you, Miss Polly, you hear from me again." As to foreigners in general and Prince Boris in particular, they certainly know how to flirt, but I wouldn't trust them around the corner. They like to tell naughty stories and pretend they're dead in love.

So the Roman season is over; the fun and the beaux and the parties and the drives on the Campagna are things of the past, things for me to remember when I'm old and gray. I've had a glorious time here and I'm sorry it's ended, but Aunt says we must travel again, and I must study. The happy days for Checkers and me are over. I wonder if I will experience some day "_une grande pa.s.sion_" as they call it over here and marry. Who knows?

I am not sure that I shall have much time to keep a journal after this for it seems as if I'd promised to write to half the men in Rome.

_PART II_

_COURT AND COURTING_

A. D. TO POLLY

_Rome, March._

My Easter greetings to you, dear Polly; I hope they may come in time.

I have been desolate since you left Rome, and am looking forward eagerly to seeing you next Sunday at Sorrento. As I pa.s.sed your Palazzo, I glanced up and saw the flowers nodding their heads above the walls of your terrace, and I met the Prince wandering about outside, appearing decidedly forlorn, poor devil. I fear you treated him badly. I felt more than a little forlorn myself thinking of you so many miles away.

I went up with a picnic party among the Alban mountains today, first to Frascati, then, after dejeuner, we climbed to the ancient city of Tusculum, and the view was glorious. Way, way off lay Rome and the great dome of St. Peter's, and near it, I knew, was your Palazzo.

POLLY TO A. D.

_Sorrento, March._

We've been driving about all day, and have seen such a lot of people we know at the hotel. Oh, isn't it lovely here! And it will be even nicer when you arrive. Of course you know Sorrento well. It's very fascinating to me,--the white oriental villas, the peac.o.c.k blue of the sea, and the gray-green olive orchards. We wanted to buy some olives, but what do you suppose the storekeeper said?

"We have none."

"But I thought this was the land of olives!"

"We have none," he repeated. "Ship olives to Park and Tilford, New York."