“But I thought this was the land of olives!”
“We have none,” he repeated. “Ship olives to Park and Tilford, New York.”
When you come, I am going to take you over to Naples to see an octopus. I know he was once a faithless lover, and has been changed into a many-armed, flesh-colored monster by a water-siren whom he failed to adore properly. Here he is, now, doomed to move forever in a house of glass where humans come and point their finger at him.
So beware! Such is the wrath of—sirens.
At night we go out on the balcony to listen to some gay Neapolitan songs sung by a handsome, dark-eyed fellow. He looks like the black and frowzy-headed Peppi. Aunt threw him a handful of lire for that reason, I believe. Then we watch the brightly-dressed peasants dance the tarantella—I have bought some castenets, so when you get here, I’ll dance for you!
You write of a picnic at Frascati. Was it as nice as ours?—when you and round-faced Pan went, and the Prince, and lanky Jan, the Dutch Secretary, and my friend Sybil with her straight black hair and her flirtatious dark blue eyes? How we enjoyed the yellow wine, and gobbled our sandwiches under the trees and told naughty stories and sang lively songs. And on the way back wandered down that lovely avenue of ilexes hand in hand!
Checkers wishes me to say he would give all his old boots to see you. Aunt wants me to thank you for the photograph you sent her, ahem! Please do not get spoiled if I add that I think you are very good-looking.