Monday was a busy day; the old Portuguese leather chair, that the Queen sat in on her last visit, was taken over to the studio, the best rugs, the two Japanese screens, and the Savonarola chair. A table was put near the door with some sheets of paper, pens and ink, in case anybody should want to write. At the last minute Brother Harry, who happened to be passing through Rome, gave a valuable hint:
“Of course you are going to send that portrait of the mother to the studio?”
“Why?” said J., “I never thought of it.”
“Well, think of it now,” said Brother Harry. We thought of it, in the end, thought well of it. The day the exhibition opened the portrait of the old Chieftainess stood on an easel in the studio, ready to “receive” visitors with Diana.
Agnese called me early Tuesday morning.
“Signora, let us go to the studio to arrange the flowers,” she said. “With respect I should prefer it were done before Lorenzo comes. He is prepotente, some things he knows, I do not deny; but the flowers—ah, that is an art by itself!”
At five minutes of ten the last touch had been given to the studio; J. and I stood waiting to receive the guests.
“Suppose nobody comes!”
The answer came quick and sharp; Lorenzo, dressed in his best, wearing one ordinary and one giant boot, his hair shining like the studio floor, threw open the door and announced with a beaming smile:
“Quel Signorino matto!” That mad young man.