Now we are climbing the Italian Alps, which are wonderfully beautiful in the afternoon sun, and in a little while we shall pass through the tunnel of Mt. Cenis and out of Italy. Every day will bring me nearer to you, dear Polly, and twenty thousand times more happy. Dearest, a few weeks more, and we shall begin the first of our married life, and you—my wife!
A telegram was handed me on the train just now which quite takes my breath away, though its news does not surprise me as much as it will you. Peppi and his little divorcée, gray eyes, Mona Lisa smile, and all, were married today in Rome, with only Gonzaga, Pan, and Jonkheer Jan at the wedding!
My dear, I am going to tell you something. The lady came to my rooms quite unexpectedly the other day, and asked for tea, which Gilet made for her, and then she just sat and looked at me with her inscrutable smile and her mysterious eyes. Finally she got up and went over and looked at your photograph for a long while, then turned and said, “Your little Polly is very sweet, even if she doesn’t like me. Is it true that you return for your wedding soon?”
“Quite true,” I replied.
“We’ve been very good friends, you and I,” she went on, “and I am sorry to have you go. Goodbye.” She gave me her hand which I kissed, for there were tears on her lashes, and I followed her down to put her in the cab. She said with that usual cryptic look of hers, “I’ve made up my mind to something this afternoon. Don’t be surprised when you get word of it. Farewell.”
The man cracked his whip and off she went.
But still, there remains some mystery about her and about Peppi to be unravelled yet. The two are married, so far, so good, but where does the Prince come in? Surely he and she were conspiring about something. She evidently wanted you to marry him, and she may have thought then that I could be more devoted to her, who knows? Then, too, there were those paintings, the copies of old masters, all packed and addressed to Boris in New York. Peppi I trust, Lisa I pity, but your Muscovite I believe is a rascal. Won’t we have a lot to talk over? And think, too, dear, from now on I’ll be traveling every hour toward you.
A. D. TO POLLY
London,