_Rome,
April._
Sweetheart, on coming home I found a letter from the new Secretary
who is leaving Washington for Rome even before the Ambassador. I am
going to pack up at once and be ready to start as soon as he arrives.
Now you can settle on some date towards the end of May for the
wedding.
Hurrah! Gilet shall go around and get my bills in to pay them, the
butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker. There must be some official
cards printed with a little p.p.c. in the lower left-hand corner ready
to leave. I must look up the dates of sailings of the ships for home,
say goodbye, give a lot of tips to porters, ushers, chambermaids,
_sommeliers_, and go to the station and so to you!
Peppi, who, I believe, is more and more hopelessly in love every day
with the lady Lisa, got up a party for her, and invited some painters,
sculptors, a few Dips and their wives, all to drive out for tea at the
excavation of the Villa Olivia. We met at the foot of our Spanish
Steps, and drove through the Porto del Populo across the Campagna,
along the valley of the Tiber by Cività Castellana, to the Villa
standing on a hill. After our tea and little cakes, we romped through
a wild Virginia reel. I danced with Mona while Peppi, sick with
jealousy, stared sombrely at me as if he wished to tuck a _stiletto_
beneath my fifth rib. It was a relief to come away, though, for the
lady’s gray eyes glittered when she asked me what further news you had
deigned to give me regarding your flirtation with the Prince. I trust
my Polly.
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