Emilio Benlieuri, the Spanish sculptor, one of our familiars, appeared in the doorway, a tall lean melancholy man with the burning eyes and the grave bearing of the Valencian Don. He bowed low to the whole company. “I kiss your feet, Senora,” he began in Castilian. “I kiss your hand, Caballero,” I responded. “It is getting late,” whispered Elinor, “really, this isn’t the time for compliments. Make him put on the stamps--they’ll taste good to a hungry man!” The Valencian, who speaks no English, understood the large gesture with which Elinor invited him to join the circle, and drew up a chair to the round table. “One more volunteer to the relief!” murmured Vera. “_Per carità_ Agnese, a sponge; the situation is saved!” Silence settled upon the dining room; the only sounds were the scratch-scratch of Elinor’s pen, the snores of Romulus curled up at Vera’s feet, the tinkle of the fountain up on the terrace under the stars near the Pretorian’s cinerary urn, the rustle of the cards going into the envelopes. On the Gothic sideboard which J. made for our Roman home, the pile of invitations, sealed and stamped, rose higher and higher, finally hiding the legend carved in quaint letters at the top: “Better a dinner of herbs where love is than a stalled ox and hatred therewith.” How much better we never realized perhaps till that night, when the loyalty and devotion of our friends helped us out of that tight place. Love is the real lifting power when all is said. The love of the whole world was helping Italy in her dark hour; the love of our little circle of heart friends lifted and carried us over that difficult moment, smoothed out the only hitch in the preparations for Vera’s exhibition. We worked till long after midnight. The faithful Valencian was the last to go; he departed in a cab, taking the invitations with him to the Posta Generale. Sunday morning “all Rome” received the card at its breakfast. Lorenzo, the _muratore_, one of our oldest friends, arrived early Sunday morning to put the studio in order. Lorenzo was Villegas’s factotum in the days when our dear Maestro lived in his Andalusian villa on the Viale Pariole, before his Mother Spain called him to Madrid to be custodian of her greatest treasure, the Prado Museum. We had not sent for Lorenzo because we knew he had met with an accident. What wireless telegraphy had summoned him just when he was needed? “What a pleasure to see thee!” Agnese exclaimed as she let Lorenzo in. “And thy foot? Will it allow thee to work? The Signore was bewailing that thou couldst not wax the studio floor. Thou knowest he believes no other is to be trusted.”