Yesterday Colonel and Mrs. John Hay gave a pleasant reception at their hotel, where I met the Bishop Potters, Mrs. Edward ditto and Stillman’s tall wife and daughters. Mrs. S. (Marie Spartali) interests me more than any person I have met so far. A superb romantic creature, a hard worker, a good painter, one of the last of the Pre-Raphaelites. I remember your telling me of her when she was the rage of London, the idol of that group. They all painted her,--Morris, Rossetti, Burne-Jones. The last portrait is by Du Maurier. We are convinced she is the original of the Duchess in “Peter Ibbetson.” She has a thousand little tricks he describes, the likeness is too strong to be mistaken.--Cold to-day, _tramontana_ blows and I hug my open fire. I wonder the Romans were ever Christianized; the sun is so all-important for health, happiness, life itself, that it seems strange they could have turned from the altars of Apollo. * * * * * Rome, March 5, 1894. At two o’clock to-day Mrs. Potter Palmer and I drove into the courtyard of the Quirinal Palace and got out at the glass doors under the clock. The porter, an immense scarlet-coated person with cocked hat and a long cane of office, received us with ceremonious bows and scrapes. “Have their Excellencies been summoned for an audience with her Majesty the Queen?” We “allowed” that we had, whereupon with even deeper salaams he ushered us up a winding stairway with the tiniest steps I ever saw, to the _piano nobile_. Here we passed through several magnificent apartments filled with flunkies in scarlet liveries and silk stockings to an anteroom. The walls and furniture were covered with blue satin brocade, there were many flowering plants, superb hangings and a few good old portraits. Here we found the Marchesa Villamarina, lady in waiting to the Queen _in perpetua_, and the lady in waiting for the month, both of whom wore on the left shoulder a diamond M (the Queen’s initial) on a blue ribbon like an order. As we entered, a little old lady very plainly dressed passed into the inner room. “That is Mme. ----, the widow of a distinguished general,” the Marchesa said, “your turn is next.” When the old lady came out we were announced and ushered into the reception room. We courtesied at the entrance, halfway across the room, and again as we stood before the Queen, who received us standing. She was dressed in black velvet embroidered with jet, and wore one string of gigantic pearls. Her earrings, immense, perfectly round solitaire pearls, were in shape and size the twins of Mrs. Palmer’s; Mrs. P.’s were the best I thought.