We watched the landau with the sober liveries drive away. Across the Tiber the regiment of Philippus was returning to the barracks, after rifle practice at the Tor di Quinto. The gay notes of the royal march sounded joyously; the proud horses of the royal landau arched their beautiful necks--it was as if they recognized the music and tried to keep step to it. Three days later, on the twelfth of February, we were waked at half past seven in the morning, with the news that the King would be at the studio in an hour. He came in an automobile with two aides, an admiral and a general. They all wore uniform and looked very smart and well turned out. Agnese and I watched them from the terrace (the studio is opposite the palazzo where we live). I was not allowed to go to the studio; Athol and J. decided it would not be suitable, the visit being so early and of so informal a nature; I was, of course, dreadfully disappointed. Lorenzo was there to open the door; he apparently managed to leave it ajar, for he gave me an account of the visit. “His Majesty speaks every language as if it were his own--they all do, it is a gift like another. It was most unfortunate for me, considering the Signore talks Italian, that they spoke in Ingerlish, which resembles--with respect, Signora--the chatter of monkeys. Something I understood, however, by observing their faces. His Majesty pointed to the horses; they interested him; has he not the finest horses in the world? Before his Majesty departed he inquired if he should write his name in the book. The Signore ran to turn over a virgin page; this his Majesty would not allow but wrote his name with all the others, just where it came naturally, when he could have had a whole page to himself. You can see for yourself what a fine big signature he has; he might well be proud of it, but he is not proud--_nostro re_! He handed the pen to the Signor Ammiraglio, saying--that I could understand for it was in Italian--‘See that you write your name better than I have written mine.’ On the table lay the photographs the Signore made at Messina; when his Majesty saw them he turned back. They studied all those terrible pictures of the ruins together, and they talked again in that language I do not understand.” They stayed twenty-five minutes by the clock on the Castle Sant’ Angelo,--Agnese kept watch of the time; then they all came down to the street. The King shook hands with J., wrapped his long military cloak about him (the air was keen), and got into the motor. The porter and Lorenzo, standing very straight like soldiers on either side of the door, saluted. The porter’s wife, the little stepson and the new baby all leaned from the window over the door. “Observe, observe, Signora mia, his Majesty smiles, he is pleased,” whispered Agnese, all in a flutter. “Ah, what a good kind heart!”