We’ve been driving about all day, and have seen such a lot of people we know at the hotel. Oh, isn’t it lovely here! And it will be even nicer when you arrive. Of course you know Sorrento well. It’s very fascinating to me,--the white oriental villas, the peacock blue of the sea, and the gray-green olive orchards. We wanted to buy some olives, but what do you suppose the storekeeper said? “We have none.” “But I thought this was the land of olives!” “We have none,” he repeated. “Ship olives to Park and Tilford, New York.” When you come, I am going to take you over to Naples to see an octopus. I know he was once a faithless lover, and has been changed into a many-armed, flesh-colored monster by a water-siren whom he failed to adore properly. Here he is, now, doomed to move forever in a house of glass where humans come and point their finger at him. So beware! Such is the wrath of--sirens. At night we go out on the balcony to listen to some gay Neapolitan songs sung by a handsome, dark-eyed fellow. He looks like the black and frowzy-headed Peppi. Aunt threw him a handful of lire for that reason, I believe. Then we watch the brightly-dressed peasants dance the tarantella--I have bought some castenets, so when you get here, I’ll dance for you! You write of a picnic at Frascati. Was it as nice as ours?--when you and round-faced Pan went, and the Prince, and lanky Jan, the Dutch Secretary, and my friend Sybil with her straight black hair and her flirtatious dark blue eyes? How we enjoyed the yellow wine, and gobbled our sandwiches under the trees and told naughty stories and sang lively songs. And on the way back wandered down that lovely avenue of ilexes hand in hand! Checkers wishes me to say he would give all his old boots to see you. Aunt wants me to thank you for the photograph you sent her, ahem! Please do not get spoiled if I add that I think you are very good-looking. * * * * * A. D. TO POLLY (_Telegram_)[3] _Rome, April._ I am coming to brave the wrath of one little siren tomorrow. [3] These and succeeding telegrams and cables must have been transmitted by telephone and jotted down since I found none on the regulation blanks. I. A. * * * * * POLLY TO A. D. _Sorrento, April._ You have only just this minute gone. I wonder if you are thinking of me--I don’t believe you are. I shall treasure the pretty gold pen you gave me, to write you with. I am christening it now. Aunt calls me Pliny--she says I write so much that she is sure I indite my letters from the bath.