As I look back through my experience of eighteen years, I realize that many of my apprehensions have been foolish, because so many of the things that I dreaded turned out all right. Almost every one of the parties I thought would be stiff--and I am not very happy at the sort!--proved to be the kind where every one grew lively. I remember one that Elaine McDonald had, particularly, because I had said to mother, “I don’t want to go. They’ll all wear gloves and it will be _miserable_!” But I did go, and they had a Paul Jones that was so rough that they broke a chair and knocked over a table, and it was _fine_! While, on the other hand, there have been parties that I thought would be nice and informal, and we just went and sat in one place and talked, and at that sort I smile until my face feels as if it were covered with shellac, because I don’t _feel_ like smiling at all. And this all shows--or it should, because I am trying to make it--that I never should take my apprehensions seriously. But--I seem to have to, and I always do, and so I felt as if I had real reason for misery, when Mrs. Hamilton, who had looked after me as I crossed the Atlantic upon the _Steamship Carpatia_, called me back into the stateroom and said, “By the way, child, I am not going to Florence, after all--” Well, I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, which is what I often do while waiting. “But,” she went on, as she fussed with the little jars that contribute quite a lot toward her beauty, “I shall hunt up some one who is, and see that you are looked after.” “Thank you,” I said, and then I went back to the foot I had originally been standing on. “My friends, the Wiltons, want me to go to Mentone with them,” she stated as she picked up a little brush she has for her eyebrows and began to use it, “and their plans sound rather jolly, and so I’ve taken them up. . . . I’m really sorry not to see you entirely settled, but there’ll be some one on board who is going up, no doubt.” “I suppose so,” I answered in a flat tone that I use while miserable. Then I wondered what in the world would happen if there was no one on board who was headed for Florence, because the only Italian I knew was, “La luna bella,” which is “The beautiful moon,” and I didn’t see what that would do on a railroad train, and especially since I was going to travel by day. “How do you say Florence in Italian?” I asked, after I changed feet again. “Firenze,” Mrs. Hamilton responded, as she powdered the back of her hands, “and don’t worry, we’ll surely locate some one who will care for you--”