Great church ceremonies are all the time going on in Rome, and as there are more than three hundred church buildings, one can go to a different place every day in the year. Not at the Sistine Chapel alone, with its “Last Judgment” scenes, its moving music and officiating Pope, need one be interested; in dozens of churches great things are always going on. * * * * * A few evenings ago we were invited to a party at the Danish consul’s. Met a number of interesting people, but the lion of the evening was Ibsen, the great dramatic writer. He is a little short man with a big head, a great shock of white hair, and twinkling eyes. I talked with him some in English. Famous as his dramas are, I knew little about them, and our few minutes’ talk was on indifferent subjects, not worth remembering or jotting down; only he talked like a very genial, open-hearted man. The next day there was an afternoon reception at our own home, and among our guests was Hugh Conway, the author of “Called Back.” He went with me to a little corner in the dining-room, where we had a chat about his famous story, his own past, and his future hopes. He had been an auctioneer in England, and on trying his hand at stories was astonished to find himself suddenly famous. He was simple, kind and communicative as a child. Shortly his wife joined us, agreeable as himself, and they were promising much to themselves from another season, which they intended spending in Rome. And we were going to be friends. He told me of their children in England. We emptied a glass to the children’s health, and the next day they started for Nice. He took a cold on the way, and a little later came the sad news that the lovable man was dead. Almost every day, afternoon or evening, we go to receptions. Half the Americans living here give them, to say nothing of those given by the English, French and other foreign residents whom one happens to know. One meets a sprinkling of Italians at all of them, but this is by no means Roman society. That is something that few foreigners know very much about. The receptions are all about alike, though differing in interest of course, according to the personality of the entertainers. People come to them and stand up and gossip a little; some pretty girls pour tea, and occasionally there is a song by some visiting celebrity. Getting a “celebrity” to be at one’s receptions and parties, by the way, is a part of a society woman’s bounden duty in Rome. What lions have we not met at these delightful afternoon and evening affairs--Liszt, Crawford, Ibsen, Rogers, Fargus, Bonaparte, Houghton, the Trollopes, Wallace, and how many others less great. One meets most of them just long enough for a cup of tea together, or a glass of wine, a hand shake, a few words, and then “au revoir.” Yet the memory of it all remains.