Villa d'Este, Lake Como, June 27th.

Dear Mamma:

When you next send your only daughter abroad, I advise you to choose for her guardians and companions the young and giddy rather than the mature and sedate. Here am I, the youngest of the party and "the likeliest," as Aunt Lyddy would say, in the curious position of chaperon to my elders and betters, which is not easy, as I have never learned the art of being in two places at one time. If it were not for Mrs. Coxe I really do not know what would become of me, as my happy couples usually choose to be in different places. I generally attach myself to Z. and Mr. Leonard, who treat me with studied politeness, although I am quite sure that they would rather have me in the lake or anywhere else than just where I am, tagging after them. It seems more important to chaperon Z. thoroughly, because she attracts so much attention. Her white hair and dark eyes always give her quite an air, and now, since Mr. Leonard's appearance upon the scene, she has dropped ten years from her shoulders and developed into a pinkness and whiteness of complexion that might cause grave doubts on the part of her chaperon were she not generally in attendance at her toilet. Why Z. should be any happier than she was before Mr. Leonard claimed her for his own I fail to understand. She had everything that heart could desire—health, good looks, plenty of money, and freedom to travel to the ends of the earth with Margaret and me, and the certainty that she could have Mr. Leonard at her feet whenever she wished, which Margaret and I think is quite an ideal position for a lover. If he had not followed Z. over here and taken advantage of her being in a strange country, with no one but two helpless women to protect her, and made love to her in gondolas by moonlight, and sighed for her under the Bridge of Sighs, and talked of their future happiness under the Ponte del Paradiso and other perfect places, I doubt whether she would have accepted him, for several years at least—and then the children! Mrs. Coxe says that Z. had better take all the pleasure she can get out of this trip, as she will not be able to get away soon again, with all those children hanging around her. But I must tell you the rest of the story, as it is simply thrilling and as good as a novel.

For some time I have had my suspicions about Margaret. I told you how sad and depressed she was when we sailed, and what an effort she made to appear cheerful. I suppose she really did care for that Mr. Grant, although you and papa thought him a rather poor affair and not at all worthy of her. In the last two months she has been quite different, and positively gay at times, especially so on mail days. Z. and I both noticed this, or, rather, Z. did notice it before she gave up her interest in the things around her. We didn't think so much of the long letters that Margaret was always sending off to Mr. Ramsay, because, as Z. said, they were old friends, and she was quite frank about the letters and assured us that they were for his mother's entertainment as much as for Mr. Ramsay's. This sounded very nice and proper, and as Margaret always seemed a truthful person, I believed her, and so did Z., but then Z. believes in every one until they are proved to be thieves and pickpockets. What really aroused my suspicions was Margaret's absent manner, on occasions. Several times, when I have come upon her suddenly, sitting in one of the romantic seats up on Queen Caroline's terrace, with a book in her lap and her eyes gazing off into space, she has started, blushed, and begun to read her book diligently. This was of course before the accident. Since then she has been in a constant state of apology for keeping us here so long, and spends her days studying maps and guide-books to find out how fast we can travel when we are once fairly started. Mr. Leonard and Z. both assure her that they could not be happier anywhere else, and their looks certainly do not belie their words; and I tell her that nothing could please me better than to stay in this lovely, cool place, where we may make a new excursion every day, and Dr. A. is always ready to take me in his motor car if only Z. and Mr. Leonard will sit in the back of the car to do propriety. He seems to forget that I am chaperoning them; but it really doesn't make any difference so long as the proprieties are attended to—you know how much more exacting they are over here than at home.

Count B.'s ideas of propriety used to amuse us so much when we were in Florence. He would pay me compliments by the yard about my cheeks and my hair, speeches that we should think rather bad form at home, and yet when he was walking with me, he would never by any chance go out of Margaret's or Z.'s sight. At first this made me feel uncomfortable, as if he really was afraid that I should do or say something improper. Ludovico Baldini, who has been in America long enough to know something of our ways, was much amused when I said this, but insisted that the Count was quite right, as a jeune fille must be rigidly shadowed by her chaperon on the Continent.

Dr. A. is a really delightful person. We generally call him "Doctor Antonio," because he reminds Margaret of the Doctor in that queer, old, deadly romantic novel that you are so fond of, and then his Italian name is so difficult to twist around our American tongues! He and Mrs. Coxe have an occasional tilt, which helps to liven us up. She is perfectly dear and the best fun in the world, but she is a bit bossy, all the same, and sets up her opinion against the Doctor's, because, as she is so fond of saying, "Having brought up a family of eight children, of course I know more than these young physicians."

Yesterday when Dr. A. had Margaret out on the terrace in a rolling chair, he said, "To-morrow we will have a little turn in the auto car." To this Mrs. Coxe objected quite decidedly, said that it was madness to attempt so much exertion, etc. The Doctor listened to all that she had to say, with the most angelic patience, and when she was suddenly called away to receive a visitor, Margaret smiled, and said quite apologetically, "It is quite evident, Dr. A., that Mrs. Coxe is the daughter of a major-general."

"Yes, yes!" exclaimed Dr. A., shrugging his shoulders, "I quite understand. I knew the daughters of General Garibaldi, and they were just the same."

"And," said Margaret, "we shall have our trip in the auto car?"

"Yes, yes, I never allow any one to interfere with my practice."

"Even the mother of eight grown children, all well brought up?"

The Doctor is bright and quick at catching on to our little jokes and asides. I like him so much that I had almost made up my mind to Margaret's marrying a foreigner, when—but I must not run ahead of my story, and of course I have no reason to think that he has asked her to marry him.

This afternoon (it really seems as if two whole weeks had passed since yesterday) Dr. A. said that he thought Margaret could stand the ride to Varese, which is about eighteen miles from Como. We were all delighted, and after dÉjeuner we set forth in gay good spirits, Margaret on the front seat with Dr. A. and I behind with Zelphine and Mr. Leonard.

Our way lay through a fine farming country with fertile fields and bits of woodland here and there, quite different from the rocky hillsides covered with grape-vines and olives that we have seen so much of all through Italy. The roads are fine, and a rush through the fresh air is so intoxicating to me, as you know, that even the company of two lovers, so absorbed in each other that they probably did not know whether they were in Italy or in Ireland, was quite powerless to take off the keen edge of my enjoyment, beside which I could talk to Margaret and Dr. A., who pointed out all the places of interest to us as we sped along. We did not stop in the town of Varese, as the Grand HÔtel on Lake Varese was our destination. Here we sat out in the garden overlooking the lake, with a fine view of the whole chain of the Western Alps spread before us, "a fine panorama," as the Doctor calls it. We had tea on the terrace and enjoyed ourselves generally, Dr. A. and Mr. Leonard trying which could tell the most amusing stories.

We flew home from Varese on the wings of the wind, far faster than we made the trip there, and as we drew up before the villa, Margaret laughing and talking to Dr. A., by far the gayest of the party, whom should we see standing on the piazza but Mr. Ramsey!

Such a curious expression crossed his face when he saw Margaret—surprise, wonder, something like pain; and she grew so pale that I expected her to faint the next minute. Dr. A. whisked a bottle of something out of his pocket and called for water and gave Margaret some drops, all in such a professional manner that Mr. Ramsay's spirits revived as quickly as if he had taken the dose himself, and by the time the invalid was ready to get out of the car both their faces were as red as peonies. The Doctor and Mr. Ramsay then shook hands in a friendly manner, which was a relief to my mind, as for the first few minutes visions of pistols and coffee at five o'clock in the morning floated through my brain. They really did glare at each other at first. As they helped Margaret out very carefully, a question suddenly occurred to me: how did Mr. Ramsay know anything about the sprained ankle? Papa always said that I would make a good detective. I turned suddenly to Mr. Leonard with my question. From his confused and unsatisfactory answer, and a quizzical look in his eyes when he met Mr. Ramsay's, I am almost certain that there has been some collusion between the two. I have been counting the days since Margaret's accident, and I find that Mr. Ramsay sailed two days after it. He took a fast steamer and landed at Southampton, all of which confirms me in my suspicion that Mr. Leonard sent him a cablegram. You don't approve of betting, mammy dear, but I am quite willing to wager my new Leghorn hat, which Margaret says is very becoming, against Z.'s fine pearl necklace, that Mr. Leonard gave her, that he had a hand in this, having learned by experience that sudden appearances are sometimes the most satisfactory ways of settling difficulties of long standing. I shall probably know all about this some day, and whatever Mr. Leonard did or did not do, he will doubtless be forgiven, as from present appearances I should say that Margaret is incapable of cherishing anger against any living thing.

June 30th.

And now, dearest mammy, what do you think of my two frisky chaperons, who planned this trip for their own improvement and mine?

There is to be a double wedding, of course. Z.'s date is postponed until some time later in July; as soon as the happy day is named I will let you know.

Before I close this long letter I must tell you of the wedding journey that Margaret and Mr. Ramsay are planning—nothing less sentimental than to come back to Italy and visit all the places that she has been writing about in her letters. They, the places, will not look half so pretty in the autumn as in the spring, but that won't make much difference to them. If they invite me very cordially, I may go with them. You see, I shall be reduced to the necessity of tagging on to one of these couples, or of marrying some one myself for the sake of having a travelling companion, unless you and papa come over here and look after me a bit. Another reason for your coming: there is no proper person to give Margaret away. Mrs. Coxe says that I shall have to do it, as the dignified chaperon of the party. I really think that this and my unprotected position are sufficient reasons for papa's coming to the wedding, so make your plans, like a dear, and work papa up to the starting-point. Dr. Vernon is to join us in Paris, so Z. will be given away by her natural protector.

Mrs. Coxe is going up to London for the wedding, and I am quite certain that Margaret's young Italian friend, Ludovico Baldini, will be there, and perhaps the Marquis de B.—who knows? I for one do not.

Margaret's ankle is almost well; she walked the length of the piazza to-day, with the Doctor on one side and Mr. Ramsay on the other. The Doctor is delighted with the improvement in his patient, and yet he looks quite serious when we talk of leaving next week for Lucerne, en route for Paris. Here he comes to ask me to take a spin in his auto car. As Margaret and Z. are both up on the hillside with their suitors (I have given up all attempts to chaperon them), I shall have to look up Mrs. Coxe and make her go with me. She hates automobiles, poor soul!—says they take away her breath and make her heart thump, but she will have to go all the same. I shouldn't in the least object to going with Dr. A. alone, but he would be scandalized at the mere mention of such a reckless proceeding, so Mrs. Coxe must be sacrificed to the proprieties.

I wish you knew Dr. A. He is a perfect dear. I am sure that you would like him.

This is the longest letter that I have ever written, but then there was so much to tell you, and as Margaret seems to have forgotten how to write, some one must do it for the party. Hoping to see you and papa in Paris or London, believe me

Your affectionate daughter,
Angela.

Transcriber's Note:

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation in the original document have been preserved.

The text uses the spelling/punctuation Sant' Angelo, Lung' Arno, and bell 'alma, which have been retained.