_Rome,
March._
_Mon ange_, I am in Rome again, but will soon be in America with you.
American Secretary like me no more because I follow after you; he go
the other way, if possible, and I look in sky as if observing
interesting eclipse. It make me very angry--wish to pull his nose--my
heart is inky as the devil’s pit.
Your Aunt, she likes me, at least. The Carthorse she calls herself,
but not of your family surely, for you are like wild Arab colt. I try
without success to tempt you with sweets and with fresh dates of the
desert, but you not let me put on bridle. After Paris, my heart have
big hole. Now I run after you to America to try mend the hole.
You can be princess if you wish, and live in a country that will some
day soon be master of the world.
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