* * * * * JOURNAL CONTINUED _Rome, February._ This morning I thought I never should wake up--it was twelve o’clock, but even then I felt tired. Yesterday was the last day of the carnival, the last ball for me. Marquis Gonzaga sent me the loveliest bunch of flowers, great orchids tied with a beautiful ribbon. So much for the pleasant--now for the unpleasant. I got an anonymous letter about Captain Carlo from an Italian girl who is in love with him, saying she will kill me if I do not leave him alone. I can’t imagine who she can be--I’ll try to do some detective work, be a Sherlock Holmes, and find out. I think it would be fun and I’m sure I’d be good at it. Living in Rome is like being in a play, it doesn’t seem real at all. But the climax came when another epistle arrived, this time a catty note from the Mona Lisa divorcée saying she was soon to leave Rome and A. D. to me, and she hoped “little Pagan Polly would enjoy herself.” Checkers and I went off for a long drive through the Campagna. It was good to get out into the country, away from all trouble. I wonder what on earth will happen next? What did happen was that the divorcée followed up her note by a call. Louisa announced her just as I returned, and I heard Checkers greeting her in the next room--“Good afternoon! Glad of your hand. Hope you feel as good as new money.” She laughed a little, but for all that, he hadn’t put her in a pleasant frame of mind. When I went in to see her, I looked a little surprised and asked her what I could do for her. “You can let my friend alone,” she said. “I do not know whom you mean,” I retorted. “Oh yes you do! You can’t play innocence with me with your big blue eyes and your nursery airs.” That made me angry and I told her to be civil to me or she might be ushered out. She fired up then, though she had tried to keep hold of herself at first, and pointed to A. D.’s picture, asking sarcastically if he had given it to me, and if she was to congratulate me on my conquest. I saw she was afraid I was really engaged to him and was trying to find out and I determined she should not. So I hung my head and pretended to be dreadfully shy, and murmured she might congratulate me if she wished to. Then I was sorry, for she turned very white and then red. “I don’t believe a word of it!” she choked, “and this is all the congratulation you’ll get out of me!” She snatched his photograph off the table and threw it into the fireplace, and as I did not know what else to do, I rang for Louisa to show her the door, but before the maid could come, Mona Lisa swept out, muttering to herself, “I’ll get even with you yet.” That is the last glimpse I shall get of her, I hope.