Then Florence and the sunsets, which I mention so often that Checkers thinks them a bit worn out, but now that I have Venice to look back on, the rest of it tends to fade away. And yet, we had only three days together there.

Everything will be so different at home for me, and very likely you will forget me if your divorcee returns to Rome. I am sure she cares for you, and besides, she is fascinating, and you and Peppi think her beautiful. Are you still devoted to her, I wonder, and do you write to her, too? You never mention her in your letters. I suppose you know just what you are doing, writing me so often?

What a long lecture I have given you, and you will probably say to yourself, what foolishness I have written! But I've told you I always write just what pops into my head. There's a kiss for you here somewhere; can you find it?

A. D. TO POLLY

_Monte Catini, August._

My darling, I am sorry you are homesick, for I know the misery of it, and how strange scenes and peoples and places and ways have kept you excited till now you feel weary. Believe me, Polly, I have spoken truly, and your letter which came to me today is so sweet, yet it troubles me a little with its doubt. Nevertheless, the kiss you send quite takes the pain away.

Charlton of the British Emba.s.sy has not been at all well and has joined me here to take the cure. The other day he said he had hoped that you and I might like each other (like each other, indeed!) and at this I laughed heartily.

I dined with him at his _locanda_ last evening and as usual he had made all sorts of careful preparations and the dinner was the best the landlady could provide, at a little special table beneath an arbor with a trellis of American woodbine. We could hear in the distance a band, for it was a fete day again. He treats me with so much ceremony on these occasions--I am bowed in and bowed out by the whole establishment in such a way that I feel quite set up. I get him to talking on his hobby, coins, and then--I think of you. And so we are both happy.

Your token has just been sent on to me here by Peppi, and entrusted to the care of Charlton. The first words I blotted with it are the two that begin this letter, "My darling." I am so grateful for it, and you know the thought that sent it is most precious. It means so much to me. I truly was in need of a blotter, for both my old one and the little one in my travelling bag have been used up by my many letters to you. It is so nice to be thought of by one whom one wishes to be thought of by!

I am reading of the Prince of Naples' visit to Montenegro to see his Princess, as interestedly as if I really had something depending on it. Everyone knows all the details of the royal match. As Mr. Dooley says, "Nowadays th' window shades is up at th' king's house as well as everywhere else. Th' gas is lighted, and we see his Majesty stormin'

around because th' dinner is late and brushin' his crown before goin'

out." I watch the _contadini_, too, when they come into this little town,--the lovers,--and wonder at them and with them. For in these things, you know, dear, prince and peasant meet.

Do not bother your little head about Mona Lisa; _you_ are a dear!

A. D. TO POLLY

_Monte Catini, August._

The papers today announce the engagement of the Prince of Naples. And so they are happy, for I believe it is a genuine love affair.

Charlton says the Prince is a fine fellow because he is a numismatist, a collector of coins, while I think him a fine fellow for choosing his bride so, and doubtless we both are right. I wish them all luck, don't you?

Boris and I said goodbye before I left Rome for Monte Catini. He may have an idea of how happy I am (he saw me enthusiastically so) but he didn't let on. Indeed he may not suspect we are writing to each other.

He is starting for Paris, but journeying there only indirectly. I can't help wondering whether he is going to see you, or going on one of his strange private errands--perhaps a combination of both. You know every naval or military attache is really more or less of a spy.

However, he is not acknowledged as an attache by his emba.s.sy. Rather peculiar, on the whole.

Just before leaving Rome he fought a duel. It appears he was rude to the Marquis Gonzaga, who they say, behaved like a gentleman in the affair, and there was a rencontre at which, alas! the Marquis was scratched, literally scratched, and honor (the Prince's honor) was satisfied. So they shook hands. What a farce!

I believe that, as usual in such cases, a woman's name was mixed up in it, but I do not know whose. I sincerely hope it was not yours. I remember they had words about you the night of Pittsburgo's dinner at the Grand when Gonzaga tried to kiss you. Perhaps Boris will tell you all about it.

POLLY TO A. D.

_London, September._

Here we are in your old lodgings on Half Moon Street, and very cosy we find it. We arrived early this morning. The pa.s.sage over from Holland was very smooth and comfortable, and what do you suppose? ! ! ! Mr.

Easthope who keeps the lodgings handed me the dearest little bunch of white pinks! I thought it very sweet of him, but when I found your card tied to them, I thought it much sweeter. He appeared in a very fine evening suit, ah! But he couldn't look so fine as your Gilet. I remember him at the pretty dinners in your rooms, as smooth and dignified as a bishop. Those times seem so far away now--when shall I see you again? In Paris? Yes, the Prince has written Aunt that he will join us there. Whom could the duel have been about? Really _me_, do you suppose?

Such a delicious little dinner we had tonight, it seemed like home, with pretty flowers on the table, and we all drank your health. You must have lived like a fighting c.o.c.k here--how many years ago was it, dear old A. D.?

Oh pooh! I don't see how you can say the Prince of Naples' engagement is a true love affair. Why, he can't marry anyone but a Princess, and a Catholic one at that, can he? So it doesn't leave him much choice.

After all, I don't think it matters. My views have changed somewhat after being so long in Europe. Why, there are a lot of happy marriages over here that have been cooked up by the families!

Checkers wants to be remembered, but says his nose is out of joint since I have taken up with you. Thank you for the flowers, telegrams, messages--I love them all.

A. D. TO POLLY

_Monte Catini, September._

Oh how eagerly I read of your safe crossing and arrival in London, dear! I am so glad you are at Easthope's. I know every nook and corner thereabouts, so I can think of you in familiar surroundings, pa.s.sing through the little hallway--isn't it a sort of toy play-house? Have you learned the postman's rap yet? I can hear him now coming gradually down the street from house to house, and finally knocking, bang, bang, on the front door. And then when you go out, Easthope takes down his whistle and gives a sharp toot, once for a growler, twice (two short ones) for a two-wheeler, and from the rank on the other side of Piccadilly, along the green park, there hurries a hansom and you get in. Easthope closes the flap in front and then looks inquiringly to know where he shall tell the cabby to go, or else the cabby himself opens his little trap (on a rainy day letting in a rivulet) and waits to be told--Eaton Square, Victoria Station, the stores, or the Gaiety Theatre--and off you start, the little bells at the horse's collar ringing, down the street and into the stream of Piccadilly.

I can see you dining, or breakfasting with m.u.f.fins and marmalade, the table so spick and span, and Easthope so intelligent and thoughtful.

But then, he is one in a million, really. I wonder if there is the same housemaid whom I used to hear before daylight beginning her work sweeping and cleaning, in the way it was done a century ago. She was so hard-working and so faithful!

It is not the same boy, I am pretty sure, that helps Easthope, for he no sooner gets one trained up in the way he should go than some lodger finds him so good that he takes him away, and Easthope patiently begins to turn another lout into a footman,--a worm into a b.u.t.terfly!

Go through Lansdowne Pa.s.sage some day--it is a short and curious way of getting to Bond and Dover Streets. Turn into Curzon Street to its very end and walk through the pa.s.sageway between Lansdowne House and Devonshire House to Hay Hill. It is a mysterious little alley to be in the heart of a great city, the scene of a murder, they say. In my time it was kept and patrolled by a one-eyed, uncanny-looking old sweeper who used to waylay me for pennies. When the sweep left, he would leave his broom behind leaning against the wall to show he intended to come back, and so maintained his right against any other who might try to take his place. I send you a little silver broom, my broom, dear. Take good care of it and don't let anyone else carry it away.

I have woven a gossamer web of thoughts, oh so beautiful and delicate and fine, like threads of gold; and you are caught and tangled in it and you struggle and struggle, and try to get away, but the meshes of the web are too strong, and all in vain. Then I, like a ferocious great spider, come quickly across the web and catch you, and there you are to stay--in my arms! And so you try to escape and go to Paris and the Prince, yet there you are in my arms--it is altogether puzzling but true.

POLLY TO A. D.

_London, September._

Darling! There is no dictation about that this time, A. D., for Checkers is out buying boots, neckties, and I know not what, for he lunches with a fair charmer today, and is getting ready to do what he calls "The Great Mash Act." He is a dear old thing, all the same.

Such a lovely bunch of red roses and your darling little broom came this morning,--yes, I am fond of you, and why shouldn't I say so? I am getting a little restless for you, I haven't seen you for so long.

It is a pity to leave London even for a few days' hunting in Leicestershire, for this little apartment is so nice and Mr. Easthope so kind--all on your account. I bought a lovely frame for your picture and you don't know how gordgeous you look, standing on my dressing table where I can see you most all the time, think of you the rest, and dream of you when I am asleep. Now, isn't that sweet? I can't help laughing as I write, for you see I am not in the habit of saying such things. I wonder if many girls have written you that--Mona Lisa, for instance? I should think they all would! P. S. I am so ashamed--if you were here, you would see me blush. Now you will laugh, but I spelt gorgeous wrong. I asked Checkers who has just returned and I haven't time to re-write the letter. Aunt is out, brother is packing, and it looks as if we were to move on again.

A. D. TO POLLY

_Monte Catini, September._