The next week was a busy one. Vera decided that we must ask “all Rome” to the exhibition. In order to do this we borrowed lists from all sorts of people. A little white and gold book, the Roman social register, contains the names of all the Court people, the diplomats, and those who belong to the “smart set.” Then there were the lists of the San Lucca Academy and the Art Club. From the bankers and hotels we gathered as many names of the transient Americans as possible; all our friends helped us. When the long list was ready I sent to an employment bureau for some one to direct the envelopes. She came, bringing her credentials, at five o’clock; as she was an English lady, and evidently very poor, we asked her to stay to tea. She sat in the Savonarola chair (it belonged to Giovanni Costa, the great artist--J. bought it after his death) and took her tea timidly, spilling a little on her poor faded dress, and crumbling the _pan-forte di Siena_ (sent us at Christmas from Milan) over the best Persian rug. That ought to have been a warning to me, but it wasn’t! We sent the envelopes and the lists to her and turned our minds to other things. The exhibition was to open Tuesday, February 2nd. The envelopes were promised for the previous Saturday, so that the cards might be put in, the stamps affixed, the invitations posted Saturday night. They would then be received on Sunday morning, a good leisure time when busy people have time to read their mail. Vera, Athol, and Wilfred Thompson came to dine Saturday to help us with the envelopes. It was our first social meeting since that fatal night of December 28th; we had all of us need of a little joy; the pain of the last month had left its mark. Agnese herself bought the stamps; she would trust no other. I had meant to send the cards by hand--it costs no more, and would have given employment to Alessandro, a _poveraccio_ who has attached himself to us. “These _biglietti_ are important?” asked Agnese when I consulted her about Alessandro. “Of the greatest importance.” “Listen to me, Signora. I would not destroy your confidence in Alessandro, no, nor in any other, but the distances are far, the Tiber is near--Alessandro might, by accident, let fall a bunch of these letters as he crosses the bridge. The _postino_ is obliged to make _his_ rounds, the _carabinieri_ keep an eye on him. No, it is safer to trust the post!”