Rome, April 11, 1899. Lady W., a stout Englishwoman, rich, respectable, a city “knightess” or ex-Lady Mayoress, desires me to help her in the selection of pleasant guests to entertain during the Congress of Women to be held in London in June. The ladies are to stay at her house. Constance Flower (Lady Battersea) asked this and is evidently to be a personage in the coming congress. I was invited to meet Lady W. especially for this object, so do you stir yourself and find out who the American delegates are, and suggest to Lady W. those she might invite, so that she may have acceptable guests. Yesterday I had a “great daughters” tea party, the Longfellow women, Alice and Edith, Huxley’s daughter, and to meet them, Loyson, son of Père Hyacinthe and Penn Browning, son of Robert and Elizabeth. Anacapri, October 12, 1899. I have begun many letters to you lately and finished some, but all have been torn up because a touch of east wind seemed somehow to get into them--it’s always like that after a long lonely hot summer in Rome. Now I can send you a flood of sunshine. Last Saturday Jessie Cochrane, John Loudon, and I came by invitation and took possession of the Foresteria, a little villa belonging to Dr. Axel Munthe at Anacapri. We had rather a troublous journey down, the Capri steamer was poor, the sea rough. We landed in pouring rain after dark and drove up and up the steep zigzagging road to Anacapri, which I think you never saw, a little town perched at the tiptop of the island of Capri. The road was not finished when you and I were here so long ago. We met Dr. Munthe walking on the road, followed by three immense wolfhounds, on his way to visit a patient. He had not expected us till the next day, so we slept that night at a quaint little inn, the Paradise, and on Sunday morning took possession of our Eden,--I can’t call it less. The Foresteria has a small garden filled with roses, passion flowers, grapes, figs and white doves. The house is perfect. I want it. It would just fit J. and me. Loudon sleeps at the hotel but is with us all day. Two dear Capriotes, man and wife, serve us and cook deliciously. We may give no orders to them; our host attends to all this. He lives close at hand, but we hardly see him. Capri is one of the loveliest places in the world. The vintage is beginning; tall girls bearing baskets of purple grapes on their heads pass constantly up and down the street of stairs. The whole land is fragrant with new wine.