I think we had sat at that table nearly four hours before we were invited to take our coffee in the salone. The sun was sinking then, and, to our intense relief, the Marchese announced that we must be moving or we should not reach home that night. The farewells were elaborate, and our gratitude for all the trouble the dear people had taken was very real; they packed a whole hamper of ancient Roman dainties for us to take along lest we should faint by the way; but our joy when we got into the open air with our faces towards home was inexpressible. As we entered the woods—less alluring in the dusk than in the fresh morning hours—a shadowy fourth joined our party, a smiling little man on a very small donkey. In two minutes the Marchese had made friends with him, and called out to us in English, “Girls, think up some compliments! This is the man who cooked the dinner! They sent twenty miles for him—and he wants to know if you liked it!” A woman noted for the charm and variety of her entertainments once said to me, “I do try to give respectable parties, but somehow they always turn into school feasts!” I am afraid the same kind of thing happens to me in regard to serious subjects. With the best intentions in the world I start to tell the story of some great person who has kindled my admiration—and in the middle of the tale the sun strikes on my page—a child laughs across the street—or some old refrain comes lilting to my ears, and farewell to the historic train of thought! My hero or Saint recedes into the shadows and relinquishes the canvas to a thousand amiable little sprites of memory who hold it till they have frisked through the very last step of their dance!