Scotland was sublime, I can’t remember if you ever saw it. We had only a hurried glimpse, but that included the heather in its fullest purple glory, the admirable city of Edinburgh, the Castle of Balmoral, the Queen, and Ben Marone. I spent an afternoon alone on the mountainside and watched with David Balfour for the red coats creeping through the bracken, and communed with R. L. S. among the hills he loved. * * * * * Paris. September 17, 1896. Last night to see Jane Hading in “L’Aventurière”; she is fine, but oh! the formality of the French drama! The Italian school of acting is so much finer that I am rather spoilt for the French; it seems to me stilted and academic after the art of Salvini, Ristori, Novelli, the Duse, and scores of others whose names I do not even know. You can see better acting in the average Italian theater than anywhere else in the world. I have Zola’s “Rome” for you. I don’t find it very interesting, though you might. The method he followed in writing it is illuminating. His wife and secretary came to Rome in advance and put in three months in getting the material together for the book. They interviewed scores of people, accumulated folios of notes and newspaper clippings. When all was ready Zola swooped down upon Rome, interviewed the most important people and put through the whole novel in a few weeks. I know so much of the sources from which he drew his anecdotes and characters that the book leaves me cold. This is positively my last appearance on paper for the season. We came to Paris two days ago and have been hard at work shopping. Of the fitting of dresses there is no end. This will be a hectic visit, the days filled with dresses, bonnets and slippers, and partings with various beaux. We see some friends old and new. People are tonics, narcotics and irritants, also food and drink. David Hall once said I was like bread; now I fear I am more like a very hot ham sandwich! This is probably the last letter you will receive from me; we sail in less than a fortnight. This almost makes me feel the frozen peaches of your cheek against mine when you come in from your morning trot on a cold day. In October I returned my precious charge to her father and mother, safe and sound. She was the nearest thing to a daughter I ever had. In that year we were together I learned to understand something of the joys and anxieties parents feel; the delight of sharing whatever knowledge life has brought with a young and ardent spirit, and of forgetting one’s own affairs in the vivid interests of youth. CHAPTER XX MY MOTHER’S LAST ROMAN WINTER