Perhaps he was right, but I hankered for the crimson carpet. The little outer studio was made neat and a corner of the great barn itself looked brave with our big rug, the gold screens, a few good chairs and the Portuguese leather armchair you always sat in. J. asked Lord Currie to come and help do the honors. He was there promptly at half-past five. We were all three in waiting at the shabby old green door when the royal carriage with the scarlet liveries drew up. Lord Currie handed out the Queen, saying, “It gives me great pleasure to present my compatriot to your Majesty.” The Queen took the long flights of stairs easily, her lady-in-waiting, the Duchess Massimo, panting behind. The Queen was delighted with the work and looked at it from every point of view. She asked for the sketches, studied them and asked many questions about the building, the light, etc. She looked at every little drawing in the studio, laughing heartily at the portrait of the Duke of Cambridge, exclaiming: “It is the old man to the very life.” The visit lasted half an hour and was as friendly and easy as heart could desire. The visitors departed in a blaze of scarlet and gold lace, with congratulations and farewells. Lord Currie said that the Queen had been really interested in the work. She certainly said things to me that were pleasant to hear. Queen Margherita has always been the friend and patron of artists and musicians and is greatly beloved by them. She finds a certain relief from the formalities of court life in the world of art, wherein as an excellent musician, she finds herself more at home than some royalties. She is herself a collector; on the occasion of my parting visit to her, some years later, it was a source of great pleasure to find in her private apartments two pictures by my husband. July 4, 1900. Left Naples where we have been having a little outing and returned to Rome, arriving at two o’clock. I tried to find some Americans to foregather with, but there was no reception anywhere. Left cards at the Iddings, out of town for the day at Frascati. If I had not been away from Rome, I should myself have given a Glorious Fourth tea. Saw the dear flag over Iddings’ door and had a little drive with Mr. Richard Greenough. The Chinese horror (the Boxer Rebellion) hangs heavy on us all. I doubt if a single European escapes from Pekin, or indeed from China. Their doom is sealed,--the opium traders seem to be responsible for it all. * * * * *