Oh by the way, whom are you riding horseback with? Mona Lisa? Ahem, and the horse is called after her. So the grass widow is back in Rome, and Peppi, you say, is cocking his eye at her? I think Aunt is too busy with her charities lately to remember about her handsome artist with his wild hair. She no longer wears floppy artistic gowns, she really likes titles, and is getting quite excited over Prince Boris’ coming. Now, A. D., I’ve got some news for you. Aunt just wouldn’t formally announce our engagement, so I did! Yes, my dear! I sent a notice myself to the papers, chuckling as I wrote it. Now it’s up to you. The only thing for you to do, I warn you, is to come over as quickly as you can and carry off your Pagan Polly, provided you still want her. * * * * * A. D. TO POLLY _Rome, February._ Here I am at the office, receiving company in the mildest manner, trying to soothe my dissatisfied countrymen, and do impossibilities of one sort and another. I have already had several visitors this morning. One was a young man who has had the cheerful but fruitful experience of being buncoed out of several thousand francs at Naples and is accordingly needy. I helped him out of the store of my wisdom and out of the store of my bank account, and he has departed wiser if somewhat sadder. Last night Jan and I went again to Peppi’s studio. It seemed as if you were really in the terrace room--you seemed to pervade the place with its old tapestries and sketches, its rugs and easels and paints and books of photographs, and the northern window letting in a flood of moonlight. And there your shadow sat, while Jan played the piano delightfully, gavottes, mazurkas, ballets. I have adopted a plan which makes me the happiest of men. I carry the last letter which I receive from you in my pocket until the next one comes, and so I am never disappointed in not having a missive from you. It is a splendid scheme, for then I always have something to read. I shan’t want to give up the one I received today, though, when the next one comes, for it is so nice. But then, the next one may be still nicer. * * * * * POLLY TO A. D. _Black Horse Farm, March._ At the farm again. It is lonely up here without you. The winter with its drifting snow was fine, but now that is melting. The roads are muddy and make such hard pulling for the horses that Checkers is hitching up four while I write, and I plan to drive them. How you would laugh if you could see me; I am the funniest looking object--huge rubber boots, a queer-looking short skirt with half a yard of tear down the side made by the bull pup, (he is the dearest thing, though) an old brown jacket very much the worse for wear, a Scotch tam, and Checker’s furry gloves--you know what I mean, the lovely pussy ones. Now we are off! _Later, a postscript._