Boris and I took a walk in the garden today and he pretended to tell me the story of his life, how his father was a Russian, his mother a German countess,—how he had lived in St. Petersburg till his father died,—how (and then he became vague), he wandered from place to place, but perhaps you know all this. He is passionately fond of horses, “me much Cossack” he said, whereupon I proposed a ride.
My mare pulled a good deal and Boris tightened the bit, but as we galloped along, both our mounts became excited and went faster and faster. Nearing a sharp corner, I sang out a warning to the Prince who was just behind. Then, suddenly his horse stumbled and fell. My mare stopped for I turned off the road into a brook. Looking back, I saw Boris lying on the ground very still, the horse standing by.
The terrifying thought swept over me that he had been killed and it was my fault, but he was only stunned and his face considerably cut and scratched. Though pretty well knocked out, Boris was game enough to mount again, so back we rode. He is going to wear a scar, but says it is nothing to the wound I have made on a more vital organ. Rather neat, don’t you think so? Of course I have to be extra sweet to him on account of the accident.
We had great fun at dinner, just a series of jokes and laughs. Afterwards Mrs. Courtney went to the piano and we danced and danced till the clock struck twelve. The whole house is like fairyland, it is so wonderful, and oh, there’s a winding secret stairway that is very mysterious. I can’t make out where it comes from or where it goes, but in one place Mrs. Courtney can suddenly emerge into the library by slipping back a concealed panel. The Prince is greatly intrigued with it; I surprised him as he was trying to make a diagram of its wanderings.
Aunt is still adamant against our marriage. She says I’m to wait till we return to New York before even talking wedding or dreaming of setting a date. But she doesn’t know what I’ve done! And that is, I’ve despatched you a cablegram, suggesting the thirty-first of May, tra-la! And added Checkers’ news. No more tonight, for I’m sleepy, dear.
A. D. TO POLLY
Rome,
April.
I had been in bed some time, Polly my love, dozing and dreaming of you, when I heard the door in the salon open and someone knocking about in the dark, so I called out to know who it was. The half-asleep portier said, “Two telegrams, signor.” Up I got; up the light went, too. Eagerly the yellow envelopes were torn open. One was yours, “Hurry up! Come soon. How about May 31?”