_New York,
March._
Thank Heaven your clever old Ambassador has finally departed, but I am
very cross that you didn’t come with him. Why wait for another
Secretary? Can’t someone else turn over those ridiculous “affairs?” If
you still linger in Rome, I shall complain to the Cruelty to Children
Society, because your staying there is making me pine away. Besides,
it may be months before your successor arrives. It isn’t by any chance
Mona Lisa who is keeping you? That day in Rome when she tore up your
picture, she said she would make trouble. Hateful thing, I wish she
were in Jericho or Halifax or anywhere except in Rome!
When do you think you’ll get back? Ever? And what about the date of
the wedding? Do you prefer the autumn? Put it off if you want to, or
shall we give it up entirely?
You might write me a little gossip. Do you see anything of Boris these
days, for I believe he’s been making Rome a flying visit? Don’t you
like him any more? I do. Does he still carry his fascinating Persian
cane? Aunt thought he was on his way to America, but like someone
else, he seems to care more about remaining in Rome than journeying
towards me. But now he writes he is starting.
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