Here, we are smothered in flowers, great baskets full on the streets for sale, crimson and gold-colored, and the Campagna outside the wall has its patches of poppies and cornflowers. Spring is very lovely in Rome, but the season is fast coming to an end. The garden party late this afternoon at the Spanish Embassy in the Palazzo Barberini was quite fine,--the Palazzo itself is so glorious! And the approach up the great staircase through the vast antecamera, through the salons, and across the bridge into the gardens is splendidly impressive! It was gay with bright dresses, and a military band played dance music, though no one danced. I recollect how you loved the place, but the garden was too damp to stop in, so I made a circuit, then went back into the house where I lost the little ghost that had walked with me among the flowers. The Prince, Gonzaga and I traced our way to the buffet and drank a glass of champagne together. Gonzaga was as lively as ever, but the Prince still looks a bit gloomy. And now for a confession. I have been to Signor Rossi’s studio and asked for a photograph of his drawing of you. Do you mind? For I want it very much. After this long letter, now who is fascinating? * * * * * POLLY TO A. D. _Florence, June._ Yes, A. D. dear, I, too, am thinking of the balcony and the sunset and everything connected with your visit here. I have ever so many enchanting memories of Florence to carry away in my brain, so that in time to come, they can be taken from out their gray cells in quiet moments when I am by myself. Especially that stroll through the Cascine gardens and into the park, where, in its wild hidden places, we sat and talked,--the warm sunshine streaming through the trees and the flowers springing up in the grass under our feet. And how magnificent the Boboli gardens were, their arcades and statues peeping from the hedges, and the long walk with its splendid vista looking out beyond the Palace. Then our excursion to Fiesole, breakfast at the little _osteria_, and shall you ever forget how we climbed up to the monastery and walked bravely in, where women had no business, and when the monks saw _me_, how they scuttled away, hiding their faces in their sleeves! But, by jinks, this sounds terribly like sentimentalizing! I will stop at once and be prim and proper. So you have forgotten what I look like? And have to go to Rossi to get a photograph! Is it true, I wonder?--“_L’amour fait passer le temps; le temps fait passer l’amour!_” How I wish I could have looked in at the Spanish Embassy--to me, the Palazzo and the garden are just bits out of the fairy tales of my childhood. Many, many thanks for St. Mark’s little gold cousin of a lion. He is a dear and I am now wearing him on my chain. I shall look for you next Sunday in Venice. * * * * * A. D. TO POLLY _Venice, June._