CABLE FROM A. D.

Rome,

November. Three weeks later.

Will you marry me? Uncertainty in our relations troubling me deeply. Where do I stand? Heaven or Hell?

CABLE FROM POLLY

New York,

November.

Call it Heaven.

A. D. TO POLLY

Rome,

November.

I do call it Heaven, or I would if only you were here. As it is, the doors are locked, for you are my golden key to happiness, to Paradise itself. It seems ages since your last letter came. Don’t play with me again, will you, dearest? Although your letters this summer have been so sweet, I know what a little Pagan you are. Sometimes I wonder if you have any conscience at all about me. If you have, I’ve not as yet discovered it, but—my heart is in your keeping. Mona Lisa has disappeared from my life.

Of course your Aunt is set on your marrying the Prince. That has been plain all along,—how did he behave in Paris?—but you, my darling, who could have guessed whether or not you were ready to make up your mind to settle down? So I delayed asking you to marry me—in so many words. But now that we have quarrelled, I long to make up and have everything settled. There is no peace left your lover till he knows that you love him, once and always. This letter is serious because, beneath it all, I am serious.

Your letters have been the key-notes to my days, and when they have seemed confidential and affectionate, I have been very happy, and when they have been less enthusiastic, I have been troubled and cast down. So, they have enabled me to measure my own disposition. What I wish to write you is this; that everything I ever told you or have written you, was the truth.

I realize more and more as time goes on, and on, that my love goes back farther into the past than I had dared to acknowledge to myself.

One day, you appeared in Rome and were stopping at your sunny Palazzo. Over I went to see—your Aunt, of course. I recall so vividly just where you stood in the little room, how you came frankly forward to meet me, and how I made my call, with the Prince, whom I met on the street just outside your door.

Then at your apartment and out in society, I saw you often; when you came to dine with me, I determined just to be nice to you,—I know I was flirting with Lisa,—but I had a sort of pride that you should enjoy your stay in Rome, and wished to add what I could to it. I thought your Aunt would be gratified, and frankly, I liked you. I allowed myself to think that much.

Then came moments, Polly dear, when I felt a thrill, a glow, that I couldn’t explain. Can I ever forget that evening when we were together in the Coliseum, while the moon swam in the sky, and the great black chasm of the excavations yawned below us, while the shadowy ruins towered around and above us. I treasure in my heart the memory of the rollicking fun of the escapade at the Carnival Ball, the Veglione, with its confidences, and the privilege, too, of that drive from the Duchess of Sermoneta’s, through the narrow streets, across the bridge, when I saw you home, and those afternoons and evenings in the little room in the roof garden, one after another. Each seemed more wonderful and more complete to me, till that last night before you went away to Sorrento, when I first spoke words of love. I was overwhelmed and staggered, my pulses beat with a new strange gladness till I could scarcely see you. How I got back to my rooms, I have forgotten.

I had determined not to make love to you in Rome, but I couldn’t help it, I couldn’t help speaking as I did. Then came romantic days at Sorrento and Florence and those enchanting dream moments in Venice. Were they real, ah, tell me, were they true?

It is months now, dear, since we met in Venice. What perfect hours we had there! So completely happy. I can feel you near me, next to me, while far away, mysteriously, I seem even yet to hear the music and the love songs.

How bewitching you were! How unspeakably lovely the last evening was, and how I treasure every little confidence you made me, as we glided along over the placid lagoon, while about us rose the palaces, the campanile, the churches, balconies, and arches, reflected below in the mirroring waters. I could put out my hand and take yours, and turn and look into the wonder of your eyes, my Polly! Some days are immortal, the memory of them can never die. We may pass away, but still the thought of those moments will live forever, for they are divine and heavenly.

POLLY TO A. D.

New York,

November.

My A. D. Well, you are in a way mine now, aren’t you? How I hated all those horrid telegrams we sent each other, and what a long time I have gone without a letter from you.

I do know what I want! It’s you, you, but oh, things are so hard when it comes to facing down Aunt. It is not any open opposition—that would be something definite that I could fight, but she simply assumes that I don’t mean it when I say I am engaged, and sits bland and smiling, and pretty soon, makes a remark about Boris.

A. D., if you won’t come over soon to look after me, you’ve just got to take the risks. Don’t forget I’m a little Pagan, who does enjoy things, even the Prince. Come home and settle here at once if you love me as much as you say you do. I am so happy you sent the cable, because you are the only person in the world I love. So we are really engaged now and going to be married soon and live happily ever after?

You want to know what I did those few days in Paris? Well, by jinks, we were off on a shopping rampage most of the time. I went to Worth’s and ordered some pretty clothes—the prevailing colors this year are the hummingbird’s.

How did the Prince behave in Paris? On the whole very attentive, but once in a while just a bit difficult to manage. He brought with him a magnificent Russian wolf hound, who was very well-trained and would obey no one but his master. One day Boris invited us all to his apartment in the hotel to luncheon, but Aunt had such a bad headache that she left in the midst of it, taking Checkers along to see her safely back. He was going to return for me since we had more galleries to inspect. As soon as the lift with them in it had disappeared, Boris closed the door and smiled meaningly and when I asked him to open it, he shook his head. I started to open it myself when the wolf hound, who was lying before it, growled. First I thought it was a joke, but when I saw the queer look in my host’s eyes, a cold creepy feeling of fear came over me.

“Once before you were in my power,” he said, “in the stateroom on the Cleopatra. I, a fool, let you go. Now I got dog, no fool any more.”

Backing away from him, I laughed, hysterically, “I came here to eat and not to make love.”

“Did you?” he inquired, putting his face down close to mine and taking hold of my shoulders.

I stared straight back at him, saying, “I am not afraid either of you or your old dog.” At that moment, thank heaven, the door opened and in came the waiter. I dashed out and downstairs, Boris following me and protesting that he was only trying to make a little fun, but I am not sure. Aunt says I made a fuss over nothing, and insisted that we all go together to the circus with him that night, but you may be sure I hung onto Checkers pretty closely. However, the Prince pointed out to me the girl on the trapeze, the same one you had admired in Rome. She was very beautiful—I am a little jealous for she looked like Mona.

Boris and I rode several times together and one day jumped our horses in the Bois, much to the amusement of a female seminary that was passing. I had a fine time and thought how the people at home would laugh if they could see me—such a change was my smart riding habit from my old duds at the farm, and with a Prince. Then the other day he took me to the Luxembourg gallery to look at a curious sculpture of the sphinx—the head of a beautiful woman on the body of a lioness, with a man in her clutches, just their lips touching, everything thrown away for that one kiss. It made me think of some verses I read the other day,

The Prince said he believed I was somewhat like her. I told him indignantly I wasn’t, but maybe I am ... and he tells me I was the cause of the duel!

A. D. TO POLLY

Rome,

November.

The top o’ the marnin’ to ye, Polly Darlin’! It would be very inappropriate, wouldn’t it, if this came to you by evening delivery? At any rate it is the top o’ the marnin’ here in Rome, and I am pretending you are right next to me, my kitten-sphinx, and I’m greeting you with a morning kiss in token of our peace, or is it an armistice? Your letter makes me happy and yet your remarks about the Prince trouble me. There is, however, one clear way out of your difficulties, and that is to make our engagement known at once to everyone. I do not want to urge the point too strongly, but doesn’t it seem that circumstances have combined to make an announcement desirable?

Putting aside all consideration of what people may say or think, I feel it would be franker, more dignified, more true to yourself, to others, to me, that the relation between us should be told. All kinds of complications will arise if we keep it secret. Do not act hastily on receiving this. Think it over carefully. Oh, I love you, Polly, with my whole soul! But I can’t come home at once; my friend Charlton is now seriously ill and Embassy matters are tied up. Under the circumstances, I am glad you left Paris when you did. Did Boris see you off?

How bustling and busy your getting away from the hotel must have been,—the drive to the station through the gay streets, the excitement at the train, the helter-skelter of passengers and porters with their bags, baggage, boxes, baskets, and rugs. Then the steamer, the good-byes, the buzz of the engine, the splash of water and a realization at last that you were homeward bound!

It will seem odd to hear about Rome now that you are in America, about the streets yellow with flooding sunshine, and crowded with carts from the Campagna, and cabbies on their rattletrap carriages cracking their whips and crying “ah!” in deep guttural tones at their horses, instead of saying “Whoa!” or “Gee up!” in the proper American way.

Early one afternoon Charlton and I started out in an ancient cab and a decrepit horse to go to the Piazza San Pietro, or perish in the attempt. I had the enthusiasm and he the perseverance. Indeed we took turns in exhibiting these qualities, for there came a time when he was enthusiastic and I persevered. There were moments when the old horse went so slowly that we thought he would never get there, but the driver used the whip encouragingly. Finally we reached St. Peter’s, surrounded by its huge colonnade, with its splashing fountains, went up the broad terrace steps and beneath the great loggia, and into the overwhelming interior with its vast distance, out of all proportion to anything else in the world.

Inside the people were kissing the toe of St. Peter, while crowds walked about and men were hammering away until the whole place resounded with the work of putting up tribunes for some ceremonies. But a great shaft of yellow sunshine came streaming down from the dome, making the gloom golden, and above the hum of voices could be heard the Pope’s angel chanting beautifully.

When I came out and looked over toward your palace and saw the tops of the plants of the garden on the terrace, I could not resist going in to see Peppi. You know he has lately taken your old apartment, in memory of your Aunt, I suppose. Up the stairway we climbed till we came to the door and rang. There was a great rattling of chains and unbolting of locks; the door finally opened and we were told he was home. He asked us to take pot luck with him, so we went up first on the terrace and examined the roses, some poor weedy sunflowers, and a few little pansies that looked pleadingly up at me while I stood in the corner of the terrace where you stood that last night, Polly.

The sky was glorious; the sun had gone down and St. Peter’s and the huge pile of the Vatican, with only here and there a twinkling light in the darkness of the massive building, loomed up in silhouette against a heaven of delicate brown which shaded into pale green. Above us in a pure vault of blue, the crescent moon floated, all silver, while in the opposite horizon, over the Alban Mountains and the Appenines, great banks of clouds rolled up, black and threatening beneath, reflecting the afterglow above, while forked lightning played ceaselessly through them. Later the faÇade of the cathedral became outlined in lights, although the dome was left in blackness, and all the Borgo was hung with paper lanterns and was very gay and bright. But I felt lonely without you.

D. V., it will not be long before I reach home! Already I can see the beautiful bay, the boats passing and repassing, and the arrival of Quarantine and Custom officials. The great city—greater New York—faintly appearing through the morning mist, and the huge buildings towering above the fog, like a city in the clouds. We pass the statue, the busy ferry boats hurry beneath our great bow and—ah, Polly, I must confess my eyes are tearful with the excitement and happiness of the thought. My great anxiety to be with you should carry the ship more quickly, though alas, in this practical age, it depends more on the quality of the coal than on the burning anxiety of a lover.

PRINCE BORIS TO POLLY

Paris,

December.

I followed you to Paris and showed you nightly and by day in the restaurants and the Bois, and all the places of fashion, and everybody he look with eyes of admiration at you and at me glances of envy. When you smile with me, then I was for a moment happy. But though you smile, you do not stay—you go away to America. You are like pretty floating milkweed, you touch here and there in your travels. The wind (your Aunt) blow you from place to place.

In sables from Siberia I would dress you and jewels from the Urals, and take you to the opera at Moscow. We would travel in the East, and you are so clever, you would help me in my secret missions. We would decipher riddles and gather secret news. You would fascinate the great ones of the earth, and they would tell you tales of State that would help the great cause. What would you say, ma petite? Be my Princess and let me carry you to my castle in the mountains; it is a little savage among the Tartars, but I hope the hummingbird find it in her heart to make her nest there with me some day.

Soon I meet you in America and we talk again.

A. D. TO POLLY

Rome,

December.

Your cable telling me of your willingness to announce our engagement was received with inexpressible happiness. I did not realize that making known our secret would bring such a new joy into my life. It almost makes me burst from sheer felicity when people say pleasant things. Dear old Checkers sent me an engagement book because, he wrote, I was engaged! Beaming, round-faced Pan bustled in, with his red fez on one side, and his fingers strung with all his jewelled rings, to talk about you and my wonderful luck. He got as excited as I did, and we both rattled on at the same time. Then we went out to dinner and had a bottle of champagne. Up he got to drink our healths,—can’t you see him?—reciting,

But poor Charlton! I went in to tell him of our engagement and he gave me the warmest congratulations. He doesn’t seem any better. Indeed, Polly, I doubt if he is ever going to get well. I shall hurry homewards as soon as possible, but I can’t leave him now. Pay no attention to your Aunt’s obstacles, my dear, if they threaten our love for each other, will you? Surely, surely, you will be true.

PRINCE BORIS TO POLLY

Moscow,

December.

Ah, the pleasure to have been with you in Paris! I think about it every night and wish to have you near.

You say to me once, write about my country,—Russia, oh my Russia, hail! You think only of bombs and Nihilists in la Russie, but we have many good things, museums best in the world, artistes most fine, ballet splendid, and Slavic music, ah, it make the blood stir. When I go to opera, and lover makes love to his lady, then I think of—you. Do you think of Boris walking the streets of Moscow, where roofs are green as malachite and strange domes grow in the sky like vegetables? Learn our history, about Ivan the Terrible, about Peter the Great, and Catherine the great lover. Read, too, our literature, Turgeniev, close to the heart, Pushkin, melancholy poet, and Artzibasheff ironical. No! Me I read them to you some day with a tremble of the voice and then you will surely fall in love with a Muscovite.

Your Aunt she write me come to New York. Perhaps you make me American when I come over. Why you not say me come yourself? I remind me of the proverb, “A thousand raps on the door but no salute or invitation from within.” Your American diplomat he amuse himself very well in Rome. As you know, he went often to the circus, to see pretty girl there who look like your enemy, the lady of the gray eyes. That the reason he not come to Paris, I think. He not want to see you both there at one time.

A. D. TO POLLY

Rome,

December.

Behold me at my desk! I couldn’t bear this place, my own, if it had not, on every hand, remembrances of you. Here in this very office, you have sat. The last day or two in Florence, whither Embassy affairs took me, brought thronging memories of our hours together there. This morning as the train crawled across the Campagna in the weird twilight of the moon just before dawn, I gazed out of the window and watched the ruins rise out of the uncanny plain like tombstones of a dead civilization,—spectres of decay and times long past. Think of all the lovers they have looked on since first the aqueducts went marching off to the hills in gigantic strides.

My precious, when the gray dawn was just breaking, I entered the Grand Hotel, and then thought of you again, of the night I first called you, Pollykins, by your own little name, right there in the doorway. Don’t be disappointed in my letters, if from time to time they tell only somebody’s feelings, and forget to mention what is happening. Now you alone are my life. But write and let me know how you feel.

POLLY TO A. D.

Black Horse Farm on the Hudson,

December.

Here we are at the Farm, Aunt, Checkers, and I. Although our engagement may be announced in Rome, my stern relative says we must wait until we’re settled a bit before announcing it in New York. I was going to give a luncheon and tell everyone, but she suddenly dashed away into the country with me in her wake, flying like Alice through the Looking Glass after the Mad Queen.

You would like this place, dear,—an old Colonial house of brick with wings and white trimmings, surrounded by great elms overlooking the Hudson. The furniture is Chippendale, queer ancient panoramic wall paper makes a background for some delightful eighteenth-century prints, and fireplaces ablaze with logs are in every room. I’ve been secretly wondering if we couldn’t have our honeymoon here. Do you fancy the idea, dearest?

There is still a sheet of paper left right under my nose, staring up as much as to say, “Why don’t you use me? Why not write more to your secretary?” Well, it will have to be in pencil, for to use ink will mean going down stairs where there are still people dashing about; while up in my bedroom I am quite alone except for John Sullivan, our bull pup.

Isn’t it perfectly pathetic to be left all solitary this long cold winter with the only boy I love so far away?

P. S. Is Charlton really so ill that you do not like to leave him? No other reason? You wrote that Mona Lisa had disappeared from your life. Are you sure she has no successor?

A. D. TO POLLY

Rome,

December.

Your letter came yesterday telling of your visit to Black Horse Farm, and as for spending our honeymoon there, it would be a bit out of Paradise! But don’t, Polly, don’t, I beg of you, put off announcing your engagement in New York. Think of the position it puts me in; as you know, Rome is all agog with it. Ask your Aunt frankly why she is so hesitant. Apparently she liked me, and she offered no objections in Europe to what she must have known was coming. In any case she cannot force you to accept the attentions of the Prince.

I wish, dearest, you might have been at the diplomatic reception at the Court, at the Quirinal, the other evening. How sweet you would have looked in your Court dress! I was overwhelmed, absolutely overwhelmed by congratulations and good wishes. Even the ministers and chiefs of missions seemed to know of my great happiness and took the occasion to say nice things. The world does indeed love a lover. When I reached my apartment I danced the Highland fling with two umbrellas crossed together for swords, and felt like sliding down the banisters, too!

At Court the reception is always a very fine function; first to rattle through the entrance of the palace, across the court to the foot of the broad staircase where the big portiers in red liveries salute and bow, then up the brilliantly-lighted, crimson-carpeted staircase to the huge antecamera hung with tapestries, a vast chamber where a company of splendid corazzieri in gleaming helmets and cuirasses stand at attention and salute each Ambassador.

The reception-room is magnificent, and there the diplomats in their uniforms, gaudy with all sorts of tinsel plaques, stars, crescents, and gold embroidery, stand about till the approach of the Royalties is announced. Then they bustle into line according to precedence—a procession that reaches around the room, each Ambassador with his staff behind him. Thereupon the King and Queen arrive! They bow; we all bow. His Majesty shakes hands with the Ambassadors, and makes conversation. One by one, the secretaries step forward and are addressed, while the Queen speaks only to the Chiefs of Missions. Meanwhile the Ladies-in-waiting stand in a row arranged opposite; so do we all remain for over an hour and a half.

In conversation with Pan this evening he let it slip out that the Prince was going to America before long on a secret mission. I have no idea what he is up to. Don’t delay, my sweetheart, in announcing our engagement—write me that you love me.

P. S. Really I do not know where Mona Lisa has gone, and I am interested in nobody but you, dear.

PRINCE BORIS TO POLLY

Moscow,

December.

A silver plate I send you for bread and cellar for salt, so do Russians give to the Tsar, the Little Father, in token of homage. As the Cossacks say, “Feed the mouth, the eyes will not be bashful.” I make you gifts, in other words, and you will be ashamed not to look on me with kindness. Often I dream of your eyes, blue as lapis lazuli from the Urals.

From Rome comes news,—you engaged to American diplomat. I cannot believe serious—tell me not true. Lady from Virginia say once, often American girls engage to two, three men all same time—is it so? It may be. Turks and Chinese have several wifes, and lady Laplanders, they have several husbands, n’est ce pas? Is it you write no more because you really serious engage? Your Aunt she say why no, of course; you not know your own mind. Peppi say she wish title for you. But I still wait that little Hummingbird welcome me to New York.

POLLY TO A. D.

Black Horse Farm,

Christmas Morning.

This morning, dearest, what should arrive but the most beautiful roses in the world from you, and in the toe of my Xmas stocking, I found a heavenly diamond engagement-ring! How can I ever thank you enough? Polly is very proud and happy to wear it. Did Gilet put the little cuff links I sent in your sock, or perhaps you didn’t hang one up in the chimney?

A. D., I love you madly—yes, I do, you can’t know, you never will know how much. Every day I want to be with you. Whenever I have a good time I say to myself, “I wish my dear ‘Dip’ were here to enjoy it, too.” America seems pretty empty with someone I love in beautiful Italy.

Aunt wants news of Peppi, says she hasn’t heard from him lately. The Prince sent me a lovely present, and wants to know if you and I are seriously engaged.

I wish I could have seen you do the sword-dance! It takes a lot of courage to tackle Aunt and get her to go back with us to New York and tell of the engagement of a proud little Pagan to a dear diplomat. Your father sent me a sweet letter from California.

A. D. TO POLLY

Rome,

Christmas Day.

In my dreams last night were all sorts of Christmas things—home and mistletoe and you under it, my love. On my breakfast-tray this morning lay your lovely cuff-links. A thousand thanks,—I shall wear them every day.

The Christmas decorations at church were holly and palms. The greens were dotted with oranges and apples, the high pillars wreathed with ivy, the chancel and altar banked with flowers, for the Reverend Nevin is very artistic in his arrangement of such things. I was so full of gratitude and thanksgiving, so placidly content that even when an awkward worshipper knocked my silk hat (Gilet’s shining pride) on the floor and rumpled and broke it, I didn’t mutter, or even think a wicked thing!

I said a little prayer for you, Polly dear. Then I hurried home, for there were so many things to attend to,—as Checkers would remark, “Merry Christmas, but not a dish washed!”

A. D. TO POLLY

Rome,

December 31.

Tell your Aunt that Peppi is looking better but still far from well. He will not stay in bed and take care of himself, but keeps on painting and painting behind locked doors. The endless rains this autumn have been bad for him, though he seems gay and talks a lot—calls me the birdcage, because I have caught the Hummingbird. For me the place is full of memories of you—the terrace, the sitting-room with the corner where you used to make tea, and where I would sit, falling deeper and deeper in love, hour by hour.

This is the last day of the dear old year, a year blessed as no other can be, for therein have I met my Polly, known her, loved her. Ah, old year, you have been good to me passing belief! How many moments of supreme happiness have you given me, days of bliss with my beloved, nights of anxiety away from her, moments of doubt and fear, moments of heavenly exaltation.

Think of the mystery of the years! I was born the Lord knows when; you flew right down from heaven, and we loved so on this old earth. The last words I shall ever write in this year are—I love you, Polly!

POLLY TO A. D.

New York,

December 31.

It is seven o’clock here and I somehow feel that you are thinking of me—in Rome it must be midnight, the beginning of the New Year. If we could only hold hands for just one little minute, it would make me so happy. An hour ago I sent you a cable, so you’ll get my message with your breakfast.

There’s just a moment left in which to write a line before dressing for dinner. Then comes a ball to which I shall wear a frock all little fluttering iridescent draperies, suggesting an airy hummingbird. Sybil is spending the night here—it is months since I last saw her in Rome. She is just as pretty and lively as ever, smoking cigarettes all the time and using the same exaggerated language,—that you’re the handsomest man that ever existed, that I’m “the luckiest girl in Heaven or Hell.” She’s much excited over our betrothal and hopes we may live a million years and have a thousand children!

Sybil went with me to ask Aunt to put an announcement in the papers, to which my autocratic relative replied that she would see. Do you suppose your Polly will have any partners now that she is engaged? For rumors are leaking out, of course. Partners or no partners, if Aunt doesn’t, I’ll put it in the papers myself, I will!

You wouldn’t believe it of me, would you, but I’m growing positively sentimental. Half the time I live in a dream with you, dear, thinking of you, wanting so much to please you, wondering what you would like me to do. The little forget-me-not enclosed, carries a kiss.

A. D. TO POLLY

Rome,

New Year’s Day.

I love you with all my heart! These are the first words that I write in the new year—just as you were the first thought in my mind as the bells chimed out midnight. God guard us, my own, during the coming months, and grant us His blessing!

New Year’s Eve, the municipality sends a band to serenade the Embassies, a pretty custom, but I wandered over to your Palazzo instead, to Peppi’s where we had a little supper and drank toasts to the old year and the new one, to you and your Aunt. “Here’s to the ladies,” sighed P.—“God bless ’em! We can’t do anything with ’em, and we can’t do anything without ’em.”

At breakfast Gilet walked in on me with your cable of greetings in his hand, so you see how timely it arrived. Thank you, my Sweetheart, for the dear message which began our New Year. This morning is brilliant and a bersaglieri regiment has just gone past on a quick-step with feathers waving, and the band of carabinieri playing a lively air. The movement and the music are entrancing but all is incomplete without you.

Later.

I have passed the afternoon very quietly, for the news of Charlton’s death today has shocked me so. Poor old fellow! Accordingly I only left a few cards officially and then went and sat a long time in the Church of the Jesuits where vespers were being sung. The building was outlined with candles, the effect fine, solemn and religious. The aisles were thronged with people while organ-music and singing rose and fell. Then I hurried back to my fireside, through the narrow crowded streets, across the Corso with its endless files of carriages, for the dread chill of Rome came on, and the men and women wrapped their cloaks about them.

Now that poor Charlton is gone, I am sending in my resignation to the President. I have decided to go into business, for a very good offer has turned up that I hope you will approve. Moreover, the Ambassador himself dispatched his own resignation yesterday. Mine will follow close upon its heels “to take effect at the earliest convenience of the Department of State,” and I added “an earnest request to be relieved of my duties at the first opportunity as private matters of an anxious and urgent nature call me home.”

If the Department either loves me much or hates me much, it will let me off promptly. My feelings wouldn’t be hurt if a cablegram should come marked urgent, and stating, “Your resignation accepted with pleasure, and to take effect at once,” the last two words underlined. I’d knock over the tables and chairs, slam the doors, and go home so quickly that one wouldn’t have time to say “Jack Robinson!” Then I would cry, “Gilet! Gilet! Where in thunder are you, Gilet? Pack my things, throw them in helter skelter, pellmell, all in a heap. It doesn’t matter—nothing matters, for we are going home! Hip-hip-hurrah!” I am all excited at the mere thought. And if anyone wondered at this indecent haste (“Haste which mars all decency of act”), I’d say, “I am going back to my love,” and they would never blame me.

POLLY TO A. D.

New York,

January.

Your photograph is beside me, and I have kissed it so many times today and every day that it would be quite worn out if it weren’t for the glass in front. The separation has made my love for you grow stronger and finer, and shows me clearly that it is you and you only I love and want. The weeks since we became engaged have found me very happy in the knowledge that there was someone who would always take care of me, someone whom I would look up to and respect. I am behaving so well for me that soon I shall no longer be known as Polly the Pagan.

I was very sorry to hear of Lord Ronald Charlton’s death, for I know you must miss him greatly. So you have sent in your resignation. Splendid! I shall expect you shortly. Cable me when you leave.

Auntie says I ought not to announce my engagement here until you can set a definite date to return. Won’t you do that for me?

A. D. TO POLLY

Rome,

January.

Fi, fo, fum! I should indeed like to be at “hum.” The days are becoming longer, and so I find my only happiness in thinking that before they begin to shorten again, I shall have come to you, my angel, to love and to hold and to cherish you forever. But meantime my letters are blue because I am blue, and I am a deep cerulean because you are so far off. Why, being away from you is enough to make me turn into a box of indigo. Blue indeed—I am Black!

To console myself I read and re-read your letters and daydream about the future. Yes, I shall come and as soon as the State Department will let me. It won’t be long now—not long, though I cannot as yet set a date. I think May would be the prettiest time of the whole year to be married in, and then go (as you suggest) to Black Horse Farm, though nobody must know; afterwards we’ll cruise slowly South down through the Spanish Main, across the Equator, skirting the coast of Guiana, past Brazil. We’ll round the Horn together and see if we can find the Enchanted Isles and other heavenly ineffable places. What do you think of this plan, my darling?

Meantime, I have only your picture, as you have mine. In case you may like to see the arrangement of my habitation, I have sketched it for you. The little cross is where my altar is placed, the point to which your devotee turns, not twice or thrice or four times a day, as do the Mahometans toward their place of worship, but constantly in prayer and thanksgiving. Your photograph is my Mecca and you are my little Pagan goddess, part nymph, part naughty elfin sprite, and part some winged flitting creature out of a fairy mythology not as yet discovered. But here in this room you are my Lares and Penates—you are my Love.

Last night I said goodbye to your picture, and went off to the Court Ball, where I saw many of our fair compatriots. It was a fine sight. It makes me think of what Mr. Dooley said, “at coort rayciptions th’ Ambassadure iv England wore th’ gorgeous unyform iv his station, th’ Ambassadure iv France jingled with medals, th’ American Ambassadure looked like a detictive at a fancy ball.” Three sides of the great room were lined with rows of people who all bowed and curtseyed as the King and Queen entered, while the orchestra played the Royal March. The Queen danced in the Quadrille of Honor, and after that the music struck up the first waltz and the moment arrived when, it may interest you to know, I opened the Ball!

The Grand Master of Ceremonies asked me to dance with his daughter, and so, bang! out in front of all the people I walked on my trembling legs, bowed to her Majesty, and went across and asked the signorina. Round and round the room we spun while all gazed upon us; at last some others took the floor and the ball was on! It was about the most trying thing that I have ever done; in fact we almost danced down the King and the wife of the Prime Minister, and a few other dignitaries who stood in our parabolic way. After things got started, I tried to dance with all the American girls present but it was warm work. The Queen and Mona Lisa, who has come back to Rome, to Peppi’s intense joy—but don’t tell your aunt—were probably the two most remarkable women there, both beautifully dressed, and they looked at each other, as ladies will. My last Court Ball!

But my troubles are not over, for our Ambassador and his wife are to receive the King and Queen; so I have that to arrange. The legend is that the Queen has expressed a desire to go to the United States Embassy. It is going to make a lot of work, of course, for Their Majesties very seldom do this thing, though Embassies are, as you know, among the few places which may entertain them. It should be a fine function—the palace of our Ambassador is so magnificent—and I hope it may be well done, though the preparation must needs be tremendous. Only certain people can be asked, and great state maintained. Oh, my darling, if you were only here to enjoy it!

A thousand invisible fibres are drawing me towards you ever and always. But Polly, I am beginning to be uneasy. I had hoped surely to go when the Ambassador left Rome, but now he says very emphatically that it is my duty to stay here until a new secretary comes, and that is the reason I have not heard from the State Department. I am, oh, so disappointed. Trust me! Believe in me! Don’t let this separation, this uncertainty bring about any misunderstanding between us, no matter how slight. I have fought off a feeling of foreboding all day. Love me, dearest, always.

PRINCE BORIS TO POLLY

Moscow,

February.

For America I start, though to Rome I must go on the way. I am flattered that you say you read our Russian authors. But read a little French poetry, too, some very beautiful but destructive to the morals. My little blond rose, though very young, knows how to fish for hearts—the Parisian need not teach her that, for she has already caught many.

I have not written to you for days because you tell me you are engaged, but if so, why is it American Diplomat he not go to you soon like me? Is it a pretty divorcÉe holds him yet, as you say “with the come hither eye?” She is much Éprise of him, I hear. But I should not tell you this. That she has returned to Rome many weeks ago, you know already, yes? I kiss your hand.

A. D. TO POLLY

Rome,

February.

Last night our Embassy Ball took place and the King and Queen came. It was quite stately, the Palace is so spacious and imposing and the Royalties were very gracious. At the last minute while we stood waiting for the royal carriages to be announced, the French Ambassadress arrived, saying that her lord had suddenly been taken ill with (literally) un mal À l’estomac. So the plans for the Quadrille d’honneur, which had been arranged with all sorts of finality during the days beforehand, had to be done over, and alas! by me. However, the invited guests had arrived, and the sheep separated from the goats. The Ambassador and Ambassadress walked down to the front door, beneath the vast entrance, while others of the official family stood at the head of the staircase. A red carpet was rolled out to the carriage and I had to go ahead and act as a sort of grand master of ceremonies. The Queen and the Ambassador, the King and the Ambassadress, followed by the Diplomatic Corps, moved down between the lines of curtseying people to the ball-room where a throne on a raised dais had been placed.

Gilet was stationed near the door so that I was able to signal to him and start the band playing the Royal March, followed by a few bars of the Star Spangled Banner. All stood until the Queen sat down. Then came the Royal Quadrille, as at the Court Ball, and the waltzes and “dancing in the barn” which Her Majesty wanted to see. At last Royalty made a move, and they were escorted to the little salon where a small table with two places had been set for the Queen and the Ambassadress, and a small buffet at one side for the ladies of the court. The King stood and drank a glass of wine with the Ambassador. Back again to the ballroom—I thought they would never go, but at last they departed, the host and hostess going down the stairs with Their Majesties between the banks of flowers to the carriage.

Then the great dining-hall with its lofty ceiling and glittering lights concealed in towering palm trees, was opened, for it was not etiquette to serve the guests with supper while the King and Queen remained. In a little while it looked as if a plague of locusts had passed over the land. There was nothing left but bones and crumbs and glasses and empty bottles. I never before felt so glad when a thing was over! It has been a good deal of a strain for all of us.

This morning I feel like a boy just out of school. Although I only got to bed at dawn, my forty winks have rejuvenated me, and I am as chipper as can be. The echoes of the ball are very enthusiastic. It appears now that the other embassies are trying to get Their Majesties to go to them.

What do you think I am doing these afternoons? Why, riding horseback like a little man! It took me days to find a respectable (looking) horse, but at last I found at Ferini’s, near the Borghese villa, a nice chestnut with two white stockings and a good deal of style when she frisks about. Peppi calls her Mona Lisa. So, in the afternoons, early or late, according to the amount of work I have to do, I may be seen sallying forth, and an hour later, returning, the horse fresh and without a hair unturned, but the rider pretty well done up.

But oh how I want to leave it all and come flying to you! Remember me courteously to your Aunt. Does she still think of Peppi?

POLLY TO A. D.

New York,

February.

Every night I read your letters over and over. You are my love and my sweetheart and I adore you. I can hardly believe such happiness is coming to me, for there never was anyone so dear in all the world, there never has been, there never will be. Your friends have been so kind to me and your father has sent me such nice letters.

Oh by the way, whom are you riding horseback with? Mona Lisa? Ahem, and the horse is called after her. So the grass widow is back in Rome, and Peppi, you say, is cocking his eye at her? I think Aunt is too busy with her charities lately to remember about her handsome artist with his wild hair. She no longer wears floppy artistic gowns, she really likes titles, and is getting quite excited over Prince Boris’ coming.

Now, A. D., I’ve got some news for you. Aunt just wouldn’t formally announce our engagement, so I did! Yes, my dear! I sent a notice myself to the papers, chuckling as I wrote it. Now it’s up to you. The only thing for you to do, I warn you, is to come over as quickly as you can and carry off your Pagan Polly, provided you still want her.

A. D. TO POLLY

Rome,

February.

Here I am at the office, receiving company in the mildest manner, trying to soothe my dissatisfied countrymen, and do impossibilities of one sort and another. I have already had several visitors this morning. One was a young man who has had the cheerful but fruitful experience of being buncoed out of several thousand francs at Naples and is accordingly needy. I helped him out of the store of my wisdom and out of the store of my bank account, and he has departed wiser if somewhat sadder.

Last night Jan and I went again to Peppi’s studio. It seemed as if you were really in the terrace room—you seemed to pervade the place with its old tapestries and sketches, its rugs and easels and paints and books of photographs, and the northern window letting in a flood of moonlight. And there your shadow sat, while Jan played the piano delightfully, gavottes, mazurkas, ballets.

I have adopted a plan which makes me the happiest of men. I carry the last letter which I receive from you in my pocket until the next one comes, and so I am never disappointed in not having a missive from you. It is a splendid scheme, for then I always have something to read. I shan’t want to give up the one I received today, though, when the next one comes, for it is so nice. But then, the next one may be still nicer.

POLLY TO A. D.

Black Horse Farm,

March.

At the farm again. It is lonely up here without you. The winter with its drifting snow was fine, but now that is melting. The roads are muddy and make such hard pulling for the horses that Checkers is hitching up four while I write, and I plan to drive them.

How you would laugh if you could see me; I am the funniest looking object—huge rubber boots, a queer-looking short skirt with half a yard of tear down the side made by the bull pup, (he is the dearest thing, though) an old brown jacket very much the worse for wear, a Scotch tam, and Checker’s furry gloves—you know what I mean, the lovely pussy ones. Now we are off!

Later, a postscript.

This afternoon Checkers and I had a horseback ride and I can sympathize with you after your Campagna rides, for I don’t feel as spry as I might. Though, after all, you have Mona Lisa with you to while away the time, and I?—Well, Boris is coming to America soon, so you’d better be on your best behavior. It is midnight and I have hopped into bed and spilt the ink; it’s high time I stopped writing and went to sleep and to dream of—well, of one of you, anyway.

PRINCE BORIS TO POLLY

Rome,

March.

Mon ange, I am in Rome again, but will soon be in America with you. American Secretary like me no more because I follow after you; he go the other way, if possible, and I look in sky as if observing interesting eclipse. It make me very angry—wish to pull his nose—my heart is inky as the devil’s pit.

Your Aunt, she likes me, at least. The Carthorse she calls herself, but not of your family surely, for you are like wild Arab colt. I try without success to tempt you with sweets and with fresh dates of the desert, but you not let me put on bridle. After Paris, my heart have big hole. Now I run after you to America to try mend the hole.

You can be princess if you wish, and live in a country that will some day soon be master of the world.

A. D. TO POLLY

Rome,

March.

Your letters, dear, from the farm bring the fine country air with them. I can see the still cold moonlight on the pure white snow and hear the ringing of the sleigh bells, I can see the old house, the fire crackling up the chimney, and the cozy room with the old prints, the warmth and geniality. Thank you, dear, for the picture.

But your mood changed, didn’t it, darling, when you got back from your ride? I am sure your Aunt dropped some little bit of gossip, possibly something the Prince or Peppi may have written, though I feared he had quite forgotten her. He’s too deeply in love with Mona Lisa now to act like a sensible person, and whatever he says is colored by his insane jealousy of every other man in Rome who even looks on his divinity. But I’m coming home, Polly. I’ll do anything to get away. I know you want to live in America and so do I.

Last night was the ball at the Austrian Embassy to which came the King and Queen. In a word—and a slang word at that—it wasn’t a patch on our Embassy Ball. Their palace, for one thing, doesn’t compare with ours, and then, notwithstanding all the etiquette and fuss of the Austrians, all their punctiliousness, it didn’t go off so smoothly. The fact is, it wasn’t so well done, and out of this I privately found much gratification. The American function had been a great success, while the reception of last night was rather a commonplace affair.

I stood around and watched the Austrian secretaries work—five or six of them to do what I alone had done, and I delighted in seeing them run about, and look sheepish or important, according to their natures, as they did the more or less foolish things the occasion demanded. As soon as their Majesties had gone, I departed, so got to bed at a comparatively early hour. They had a cotillion afterwards which we had the good sense not to undertake. Rather a funny thing was the fact that a class of Americans who hadn’t been asked to our ball were invited to this one!

I took a ride on my chestnut horse this afternoon—yes, the one Peppi dubbed Mona Lisa. But don’t you worry about the real lady Lisa—she—well, she just helps to pass the time away. Today as we started out, great banks of clouds toward the East had gathered, casting shadows on the hills, and these advanced till a glorious double rainbow arched across the Campagna. It was all so beautiful that we innocently rode right into the storm and were drenched in a pelting rain.

The Embassy is humming with people calling, making inquiries, asking for passports, demanding everything from a room in the best hotel to a good store where an American can buy a pair of suspenders, and a thousand and one other requests. Then the Ambassador is getting ready to go away, so all is topsy-turvey. As soon as he goes, I shall begin to pack my boxes—a few books and pictures; and then some evening when the new secretary gets here, I shall quietly go to the station, take the train, and ride rattling across the uncanny old Campagna for the last time, and say goodbye to old Rome, goodbye! I follow your pesky Prince!

POLLY TO A. D.

New York,

March.

Here I am, twenty-one years old and everything to make me happy except two little things. One is I don’t like to have that grass-widow with her gray cat’s eyes again in Rome. She’s much too smartly dressed, and calculating, too, yes, she is, A. D. She just goes after what she wants, then if it’s not obtainable, takes whatever else is handy. She may be amusing, but even if you and Peppi do rave about her looks, I don’t think she’s a bit pretty.

And this is the other thing. Aunt has inserted a denial of our engagement, after the nice announcement I had put in the paper. That’s why we darted up to the Black Horse Farm last week. To get me away so I shouldn’t see it contradicted in the Sunday papers. But Sybil did and sent it to me. What shall I do next?

I’m grateful anyway for the dearest sweetheart in the world; that’s more than anyone else has! This morning the sun shining brightly into my room awoke me, and the day has turned out glorious, not a cloud in the sky. Don’t you hope our wedding-day will be like this? Louisa decorated the breakfast table and on it were some birthday gifts—a pair of pretty bedroom slippers, a work-bag from Grandmother (Ahem, I sew so much!) and a pretty cardcase from Aunt, and a little silver coffee pot, just big enough for two, from Checkers. Aunt sniffed when Checkers explained elaborately the two it was meant for. I believe she is still actually set on my becoming a Princess.

And then! There lay two letters and a cable—all three from you. They got torn open first, even before I untied the great box that contained your roses. I put away the letters till I could take them off to my lair, to read and re-read secretly—such dear letters and such lovely flowers. I’d like to kiss you and tell you so this very minute, but you’re leagues and leagues away, so there’s something lacking to my birthday after all.

After breakfast there was business to be attended to. Now I’m of age, Aunt is no longer my guardian. (Do you suppose she’s heaving a sigh of relief?) So forth I sallied into town with our business man, Mr. French—we went in a cab—quite improper, don’t you think? And at such an early hour! Well, we got to the office and were closeted together for ages and ages while he talked and talked and read and read again papers and documents, I signing them above and below and around about until my wrist ached. Then a man with a red stamp came in to help officiate till finally we got them all fixed up. After that Mr. French took me to a safe where there was a little tin box; here we put the precious papers with my John Hancock all over them, and after he had given me two keys, he left me. And what do you suppose I did? Having for the first time a little money of my own, I went to a jeweller and bought a very pretty ring—for Sybil. Now are you disappointed? Never mind. Something else was bought for somebody I won’t mention.

On coming home I found, well! ! ! There are no words enthusiastic enough to thank you for the glorious great pearl on a chain to go about my neck. But you know that these few poor inadequate thanks come from my heart, and hidden somewhere in them are endless devotion and perfect faithfulness to you.

A. D. TO POLLY

Rome,

March.

I enclose some photographs of the “meets” on the Campagna—of the pack and the huntsmen and tent, and a group of onlookers—the princess of San Faustino, the last Orsini, and Prince Solofra who seems to be scratching his head and meditating on the past glories of the great feudal families. Also one of your friends, Gonzaga, with the Countess he is going to marry.

There is an attempt being made to revive the Carnival fÊtes—the races in the Corso—but the Veglione won’t be so much fun as last year, I know. Every moment of that night together is unforgettable. Poor erratic Pittsburgo, how you did tease him! And dear old Checkers! There’ll never again be anything so funny as he was in that round masque with its fixed grin, dancing about on the floor of the Costanzi. But now it isn’t carnival for me. Who could feel gay when his love is not here? So I am only an observer, while others sport and play the fool, more or less amusingly.

The Corso has been crowded, and many of the balconies draped with bright carpets, and wreathed with flowers. Through the throngs there moved an irregular succession of fantastic figures, men on horseback, dressed in red and yellow, heralds, groups of historic patriots and warriors, and even Marcus Aurelius so ingeniously imitated that he appeared exactly like the statue on the Capitol, which is supposed to have left its pedestal and come down to enjoy the mirth. Then there was a “char” with Venus—to whom as the Goddess of love, I took off my hat and bowed,—drawn by tinsel cupids and snowy pigeons tugging away at the ends of stiff wires. There were sacrificial chariots, too, and floats of hanging gardens, and still more Roman statues,—

The people threw flowers and confetti and everything else they could lay their hands on. Between certain hours there was complete license, and a mask could hit or kiss or be as wild as he pleased. (You know, dear, there is a certain kind of kissing I do not disapprove of.)

Yesterday, too, was gay with crowds of people in the streets, for it was the King’s birthday, and I was awakened by the music of marching bands, in time to see from my window the Persian Ambassador starting to call on the King at the Quirinal. The gala carriages made a fine show with their caparisoned horses, the three liveried footmen behind and bewigged coachman stuck up in front. This important Embassy had traveled all the way from Persia to tell the King that a new Shah had come to the throne, a bit of news we had learned by telegraph months ago,—but such are the ways of monarchs. I wonder when the Ambassador will arrive from America to announce the accession of the new Administration! The evening found me dining at the Foreign Office in honor of His Majesty’s birthday. It was a very splendid and stately affair, the diplomats and officials all in uniforms of gold lace, cocked hats, with swords and fine feathers, my simple, unadorned black coat being the only one at the table. (However, the servants were dressed like me, though to be sure, even some of them were decorated!) It was a dinner of fifty, long and ceremonious, and afterwards we all stood about while I watched the Greek and Turk dodging each other, and taking turns in talking excitably to their fellow guests. Tomorrow they will probably be at each other’s throats.

The Ambassadorial family has just left, with a good many people to see them off, chiefly officials. I put some flowers in their compartment, as I did when my darling Polly left Rome. I had hoped to be able to leave with them, but, as I wrote you, I must wait until a new Ambassador, or his Secretary, arrives before I can turn over the affairs and leave. Oh, Polly, I am so sorry for this further delay. You know how disappointed I am, and you will be patient with me, won’t you, dear?

PRINCE BORIS TO POLLY

Rome,

March.

Dushenka moya, you do not know what these little words mean? Then you cannot forbid that I call you that. Long time I am coming but had much work to do. Now my passage at last is engage, and the boat that bring me I hope she fly. So I fascinated you with my mysterious tales, your letter says? Then shall I tell you more when we meet, about the enchanted Princess with the beautiful golden hair, yes?

Ah, my poor little Hummingbird, I hear your young Diplomat he is staying in Rome; there is no need, but then, oh la la! Always the gray-eyed lady of Da Vinci is with him, and they tell me that every day they go off into the Campagna and ride and ride and come back very cheerful. I am angry for you. When I come, will you receive me kindly like the true friend who will always remain your obedient Boris?

POLLY TO A. D.

New York,

March.

Thank Heaven your clever old Ambassador has finally departed, but I am very cross that you didn’t come with him. Why wait for another Secretary? Can’t someone else turn over those ridiculous “affairs?” If you still linger in Rome, I shall complain to the Cruelty to Children Society, because your staying there is making me pine away. Besides, it may be months before your successor arrives. It isn’t by any chance Mona Lisa who is keeping you? That day in Rome when she tore up your picture, she said she would make trouble. Hateful thing, I wish she were in Jericho or Halifax or anywhere except in Rome!

When do you think you’ll get back? Ever? And what about the date of the wedding? Do you prefer the autumn? Put it off if you want to, or shall we give it up entirely?

You might write me a little gossip. Do you see anything of Boris these days, for I believe he’s been making Rome a flying visit? Don’t you like him any more? I do. Does he still carry his fascinating Persian cane? Aunt thought he was on his way to America, but like someone else, he seems to care more about remaining in Rome than journeying towards me. But now he writes he is starting.

A. D. TO POLLY

Rome,

March.

As to the date of the wedding, of course it rests with you, dear, to fix it. It should be, if possible, a week or so after I get home but as for waiting until autumn, I should die! Why not May—that time of year would be lovely at the farm? My plan would be to make a festive little program of pre-nuptial events and a small wedding in church and then you and I would go away and leave everybody in the midst of it all.

But my Polly will arrange everything quite perfectly, I’m sure. A poor man, who is an awkward creature at best, is simply disorganized when it comes to a wedding—and that wedding his own, whew! Nevertheless, we’re talking about it, and just that alone makes me want to dance another of my celebrated Highland flings. Make it May, and near the latter part. I simply cannot fail to be relieved of my work in time to reach home by that date.

Your letter hurt me. Nothing but duty keeps me in Rome, and you must learn to trust me, and not tease and provoke me, because this separation is quite as hard for me as it is for you. Your Prince is here again, but is becoming impossible. I have seen little of him and would like to see even less. Pan, dear Pan who never has a hard word for anyone, much less for one of his own colleagues, tells me he is the most malicious man he knows, that he likes trouble and does the most abominable things. Even the Russians at his own Embassy seem to be watching him closely. He couldn’t do much to trouble us, could he, dear? Has he been writing, to you often, I wonder? And what about? Tell me.

Polly, I write you everything! The other night, just Turkish Pan and artist Peppi and Madame Mona Lisa came to a little dinner in my rooms. While we were talking of not drinking, (I had planned to stop during Lent) I said, with you in my mind, there were of course some toasts I couldn’t resist. Quick as a wink Peppi lifted his glass with “To Mona Lisa!” I was furious, but had to drink it. Dear kind bejewelled Pan then raised his and said “Miss Polly.”

Of course Gilet had to refill my glass which he did with evident delight, for he does not like a dry Lent. But to the second toast I drank heel taps, you may be sure. Then my lady Lisa took an imitation pansy from her dress, saying she knew that Miss Polly gave me fresh ones, but while yours would fade, hers would last forever and bestowed it upon me. Peppi, to my great amusement, looked daggers—he was just like an angry spaniel with his fuzzy hair,—so I made a great show of sentiment in accepting the flower.

Will you forgive me? not for breaking my Lenten sacrifice, for alas! what is that to my little Pagan? You wouldn’t give up your tiny glass unless you took it to pour a libation to some heathen god of mischief. Forgive me for the first toast I drank, that’s all.

There is one thing also I must speak of. I have seen the gold St. Mark lion I gave you on the Prince’s chain. I am sure it was the one, because it had ruby eyes. Although we have not been speaking, I went deliberately up to him and asked him where he got it. He looked confused and said something about having picked it up in Paris. Then I remarked, “I think some pretty American girl gave it to you.” He laughed and replied, “Maybe, who knows?” And Peppi tells me today that he has already sailed for New York. Will you kindly tell me why you gave it to him?

Just what does this mean? The more I think of my lion, the more indignant I am. To pay you back, I am going really to flirt with Mona. I give you fair warning. What do you think of that?

PRINCE BORIS TO POLLY

New York,

March.

Telegram.

Oh how happy I am to think I shall see you once again. Shall be with you tomorrow.

POLLY TO A. D.

New York,

March.

I’m getting desperate. It is impossible to write you how I feel or why, but I’m so alone except for Checkers. He said today, “Why young ’un, you’re getting restless,” and so I am. The Prince arrives tomorrow—Aunt still continues to be queer about our engagement. So you think I really gave the lion to the Prince? And you are flirting with the dangerous Mona Lisa. Oh, everything seems topsy turvey!

POLLY TO A. D.

Cable.

New York,

April 1st.

Breaking my engagement for reasons you can no doubt surmise.