_Rome,
April 2d._
Your dear cablegram came this morning begging my forgiveness. You have
it, dearest, absolutely. Evidently somebody’s little conscience
troubled her about her naughty message of April first. You’ll get, I
fear, a pretty sharp letter which ought not, however, to offend you.
Anyway the last cable made me happy, and yet another, telling me that
the Senate had confirmed the nomination of the new Ambassador, made me
happier still and my heart lighter than it had been for weeks. At
least, someone is coming now.
But we’re doing the only thing to be done under the circumstances, and
my Polly, I know, expects every man to do his duty, doesn’t she? I
shall be home by May, you can be sure, even if I have to resort to the
desperate measure of deserting my post. But that would be a hard step
to take.
Yesterday I went about a bit--that is, this earthly shell of mine did,
while my heart and soul were with you, dear--first to take luncheon
with Peppi and to look at his curious copies of old masters. Do you
know, he has even taken to painting them on wood, exactly like the
fifteenth century--and his own Mona Lisa is uncannily like the one in
the Louvre. I told him so and he looked queerly at me. Some had been
boxed for sending and whose name do you think was blackly lettered on
them? The Prince’s--and the address somewhere down on New York’s east
side. Curious, isn’t it?
I didn’t stay long, being too distracted (my nerves are so strung up,
they make me the worst company in the world). So I wandered home
through the beautiful sunny streets, down past the foot of the Spanish
steps where we used to meet, past the fountain and the flower-sellers.
Write soon, won’t you?
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