“Why not, why not?” was the cheery answer. The sittings were full of interest, the Duke proving a genial sitter. He occasionally fell into a doze from which his son would gently rouse him, whereupon, to show how wide awake he was, he burst into song with snatches from grand opera in a voice that showed traces of a musical training. My husband was fortunate in making an excellent likeness. With the help of Lady Kenmare and Hamilton Aïdé the four portraits were taken to London and became the nucleus of the exhibition and sale of pictures held at the house of the Duke of Sutherland for the war fund. The portrait of the Duke of Cambridge, I believe, found its way into the War Office; the other three were purchased by the families of the fallen heroes. Among the imperishable memories of this year is the long-drawn-out agony of Ladysmith, where for four months General White kept the enemy at bay. In this siege my young cousin Hugh Frazer was wounded. He recovered and lived to lay down his life in the World War, eighteen years later. We seemed to be living more in South Africa than in Italy, so closely did we follow every move of that dreadful war. One night at the Grand Hotel I sat at dinner very near to Cecil Rhodes. He was the center of interest in a crowd of celebrities gathered together to commemorate some important event. Though I have forgotten what the occasion was, I can see the face of the great Dictator of South Africa as if I had seen it yesterday. He looked the empire builder he was, but most of all he looked like an American. He spoke as one having authority, and compelled, apparently without in the least wishing to do so, the attention of every person in the large company. A year or two later I was fortunate in meeting Hunter Weston, the hero of the Boer War and the Gallipoli campaign. He held at this time the rank of Colonel, and was on his way home from the Transvaal, invalided. We met several times at Villa Florida, the home of Major Davis in Naples, and later he came to our house in Rome. What impressed one most about him was an amazing virility, together with a charm of speech and a grace of manner that made him a marked man in any gathering. He was a _preux chevalier_ among the sons of Mars. Lest I forget, let me anticipate my story to note that we were in London at the close of the Boer War. The day peace was declared, May first, 1902, we took a cab and drove about the city. London was beside itself with joy. The streets were filled with people singing, dancing, cheering; the traditional English calm was swept away by a storm of rejoicing. J., who had lived out of his country since his boyhood, could not believe his eyes. “I don’t know my own people,” he kept saying; “this is not my London.” A few nights later Colonel Hunter Weston dined with us. Talking of the demonstration, he agreed with what J. had said, adding, “Perhaps you do not realize how much cause there is for rejoicing!” [To my Mother.]