It has been said once I resemble D’Artagnan and perhaps you are afraid of me, afraid of what Spaniards call a furia francesa. Perhaps you feel I carry you off like a hero of antiquity—Paris, I think—took Helena away.
You are making game of me. I am very furious. I have try lately to console myself to find another woman, as much as it is possible like my hummingbird. I look but cannot find her. I have treasure long time the only thing I have had that was of you—the handkerchief. But today the handkerchief it is gone and not to be found. I have sorrow like for the loss of a dear friend.
Here I am alone, with thirty people in the hotel, and not one of them hummingbirds. I am weary and think often of you. I would give them all for having you.
JOURNAL CONTINUED
Rome,
March.
Hurrah! I have won the hat from Checkers. When the Prince came to say goodbye, he proposed. “Some speed to that boy,” says Brother. Of course I refused him. Oh, if Aunt knew, she would be madder than a wet hen. But Boris swears he won’t take no for an answer, “You mock me like wicked Pagan girl that you are. But I love Pagans. I meet you in Paris before you sail for America.”
We are leaving Rome tomorrow. A. D. and I had a long talk on the terrace and just a wee bit of nonsense. He wants to spend next Sunday with us at Sorrento. I told him to come along. Thank Heaven the divorcée has left Rome at last.
Carlo also asked to be allowed to come to Sorrento, but I don’t want him to, and so there’s an end to that. He can have his Italian girl. I wonder if Peppi will turn up, for Aunt’s portrait is finished and she likes it. It ought to be good after those long sittings.