I went and told Aunt. The American Ambassador came to call in the late afternoon and they were both closeted for about an hour. When I asked her what they talked about, she said about A. D. and Mona, but she wouldn’t tell me anything else. But I know that divorcée is trying to make some mischief. Well, she may if she wants to. I don’t care. If A. D. likes that kind of woman, he may have her. Pittsburgo and Captain Carlo came for luncheon, and then later in came the Prince for tea. Aunt insists on leaving us together every chance she gets. But he is a trifle too impassioned, even for me. When he left today, he said, “Why is it you are unkind? You say me not sweet things, I who would kiss your feet. Naughty one, you are cold as March to me when I want you to be like the month of May.” And that’s the way he’s always going on. After Marquis Gonzaga’s dinner, the other evening, I left while the others were still dancing. Carlo was watching mournfully from the balcony above and ran down to put me in my carriage, but round-eyed Pittsburgo caught up with him, much to his disgust, so he did not have the farewells to himself, and Louisa and I set off for home. But when we reached the Palazzo, what do you suppose? There was Carlo to open the door! He had gotten into another carriage and raced ahead of us. He begged for the violets that I was wearing. I wouldn’t give them then, but when I reached the upper landing, just out of deviltry, I threw them out of the window to him. It’s a funny game, but this isn’t the first time I’ve played it, nor the first time he has either, for that matter. I wonder if I’ll get knifed by his Italian girl. I’ll risk it, for it’s all such fun. The dinner had been awfully uninteresting, and I had to have a little bit of amusement. A. D. was to sit on one side of me but he never came. I suppose he was with Mona Lisa. Also I spilt coffee over my new dress and got rather cross. I didn’t sleep a wink all night. * * * * * In the meanwhile I hadn’t forgotten about the anonymous letter warning me to let Carlo alone, so one afternoon I showed the note to Boris who was here calling and suggested that we do a little detective work together. His eyes glittered and I told him he could be Doctor Watson, but I should be Sherlock. As we sallied forth for a walk to talk it over, we saw a pretty contadina sauntering up and down the street outside the palazzo, and just on impulse, I said, “What do you make of that, Watson?” She happened to glance up, and if ever there was a look of hatred on a human face, she had it. “I have seen her before,” remarked my companion. “You have?” I gasped. “Dining in a little trattoria with--” “Anyone I know?” Boris nodded and I guessed at once that he meant Carlo but preferred not to say so definitely.