On entering my room I saw a cable lying on my desk and eagerly sprang forward, tore it open, only to stagger back and sink into a chair, for it said, “Breaking my engagement for reasons you can no doubt surmise.” Your name was signed. I have gone over everything. Perhaps you thought I was really flirting with the divorcée--perhaps the Prince has been at the bottom of this--maybe you have felt unduly wounded at my delay in returning, which you must know is not my fault. Exactly what I intended to do I am not sure, but in my excitement I telephoned Lisa. She said, “Come over at once,” and I went. She knows absolutely no reason for your action, and begged my forgiveness if she had unwittingly caused trouble between us. Thank Heaven there is one loyal woman. Oh! Polly my Pagan, is it the Prince? * * * * * A. D. TO POLLY _Cable from Rome, Evening, April 1._ Another cable was brought me late tonight. “April Fool!” it read. Thank God. Polly, don’t do that again. * * * * * A. D. TO POLLY _Rome, April 2d._ Your dear cablegram came this morning begging my forgiveness. You have it, dearest, absolutely. Evidently somebody’s little conscience troubled her about her naughty message of April first. You’ll get, I fear, a pretty sharp letter which ought not, however, to offend you. Anyway the last cable made me happy, and yet another, telling me that the Senate had confirmed the nomination of the new Ambassador, made me happier still and my heart lighter than it had been for weeks. At least, someone is coming now. But we’re doing the only thing to be done under the circumstances, and my Polly, I know, expects every man to do his duty, doesn’t she? I shall be home by May, you can be sure, even if I have to resort to the desperate measure of deserting my post. But that would be a hard step to take. Yesterday I went about a bit--that is, this earthly shell of mine did, while my heart and soul were with you, dear--first to take luncheon with Peppi and to look at his curious copies of old masters. Do you know, he has even taken to painting them on wood, exactly like the fifteenth century--and his own Mona Lisa is uncannily like the one in the Louvre. I told him so and he looked queerly at me. Some had been boxed for sending and whose name do you think was blackly lettered on them? The Prince’s--and the address somewhere down on New York’s east side. Curious, isn’t it? I didn’t stay long, being too distracted (my nerves are so strung up, they make me the worst company in the world). So I wandered home through the beautiful sunny streets, down past the foot of the Spanish steps where we used to meet, past the fountain and the flower-sellers. Write soon, won’t you? * * * * * POLLY TO A. D. _New York, April._