I haven’t told a soul about yesterday’s letter, nor have I yet put
down my next thrilling adventure, but Aunt manages to keep a fairly
watchful eye on Checkers and me. Being twins, we are much alike and
always under suspicion of what Uncle John used to call “collusion.” So
far we’ve behaved very well, but when we do anything we should not,
she says, “There’s your uncle cropping out,” or “You’re as wild as
hawks; where do you two get these ways?” and then I answer her with
this song:
“I’m a little prairie flower
Growing wilder every hour;
I don’t care what you say to me,
For I’m as wild as I can be.”
Checkers has a little cart and horse such as the Roman swells drive;
he hunts in the Campagna, and everybody simply loves his American
slang. When people remark how much we are alike, he retorts, “Sure!
We’re twins, and she’s as close to me as my glove.”
But my adventure--well!. Yesterday I was out shopping alone when I
noticed a man was following me at a distance. I hurried home, not
daring to turn around, but he followed me all the way, and then
proceeded to walk up and down outside my window in Italian fashion. I
could only see the top of his silk hat, but I thought just for fun I
would throw him a rose. Aunt caught me at it and she certainly was
scandalized; hereafter I am never to go out alone.
Louisa, looking rather demure, came in this afternoon and announced
the American Secretary. And who do you think came with him? The
Russian Prince of the steamer. And that isn’t all, for it was he who
followed me home! Now that he has been properly introduced, Aunt has
forgiven him everything, and is all smiles. He talked to her most of
the time, not to me, and she says he is very agreeable. I adore his
broken English, but how is he going to smuggle letters to me, unless
maybe Louisa will continue to help?
Auntie is perking up and taking notice. She is certainly getting
frisky. Our good old Cart Horse, as she calls herself because she
thinks she does all the work, has come out of mourning and invested in
a lot of new, artistic clothes,--lovely colors, but floppy--that go
rather well with her reddish hair. She’s making a specialty of
artists, and of one artist in particular, a temperamental soul, dark
and handsome with wild hair called Don Peppi, who is painting her
portrait.
In the midst of a party last evening I was introduced to Captain Carlo
somebody--I’ve forgotten the rest of his name--who at once began a
desperate flirtation with me. Desperate indeed, for he’s a dashing
young Italian officer who wears his beautiful uniform most smartly,
and speaks good English and dances simply divinely. Checkers says he
hunts on the Campagna, and being a reckless rider, cuts quite a figure
there. I think he may be a close second to the Prince. When we were
leaving, he got our things for us, and he, and the American
Secretary, the Turkish Ambassador, “Pan,” they call him, and a Spanish
diplomat, Marquis Gonzaga, managed between them to put us properly in
our carriage. This is LIFE!
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