I gave a dinner at my hotel one evening in order to pay my respects to those who had been so courteous to me and put it in charge of Mrs. Barfleur, who was desirous of nothing better. She was fond of managing. Mrs. Q. sat at my left and Mrs. H. at my right and we made a gay hour out of history, philosophy, Rome, current character and travel. The literary executor of Oscar Wilde was present, Mr. Oscar Browning, and my Greek traveler and merchant, Mr. Bouris. An American publisher and his wife, then in Rome, had come, and we were as gay as philosophers and historians and antiquaries can be. Mr. H. drew a laugh by announcing that he never read a book under 1500 years of age any more, and the literary executor of Oscar Wilde told a story of the latter to the effect that the more he contemplated his own achievements, the more he came to admire himself, and the less use he had for other people’s writings. One of the most delightful stories I have heard in years was told by H. who stated that an Italian thief, being accused of stealing three rings from the hands of a statue of the Virgin that was constantly working miracles, had declared that, as he was kneeling before her in solemn prayer, the Virgin had suddenly removed the rings from her finger and handed them to him. But the priests who were accusing him (servitors of the Church) and the judge who was trying him, all firm believers, would not accept this latest development of the miraculous tendencies of the image and he was sent to jail. Alas! that true wit should be so poorly rewarded. One of the last things I did in Rome was to see the Pope. When I came there, Lent was approaching, and I was told that at this time the matter was rather difficult. None of my friends seemed to have the necessary influence, and I had about decided to give it up, when one day I met the English representative of several London dailies who told me that sometimes, under favorable conditions, he introduced his friends, but that recently he had overworked his privilege and could not be sure. On the Friday before leaving, however, I had a telephone message from his wife, saying that she was taking her cousin and would I come. I raced into my evening clothes though it was early morning and was off to her apartment in the Via Angelo Brunetti, from which we were to start.