ish. Certainly she will never
compromise me; but then, perhaps, she will never let me compromise
myself, and that will be terrible! I am ungrateful; all men are
ungrateful; but, then, is it not a little the women's fault? They do
keep so very close to one. Now, an angel, you know, becomes tiresome if
one never gets out of the shadow of its wings. Here, at Coombe-Bysset,
the angel fills the horizon.

* * * * *

_From the Duchessa dell'Aquila Fulva, Palazzo Fulva, Milano, to the
Prince Piero di San Zenone, Coombe-Bysset, Luton, Bedfordshire,
England._

_Caro mio Pierino_,--

Are you sure you have an angel? People have a trick of always calling
very commonplace women angels. "She is an angel" is a polite way of
saying, "She is a bore." I am not sure, either, that I should care to
live with a veritable angel. One would see too much of the wings, as you
say; and even a guardian angel must be the _terzo incommodo_ sometimes.
Why _would_ you marry an English girl? I dare say she is so
good-tempered that she never contradicts you, and you grow peevish out
of sheer weariness at having everything your own way. If you had married
Nicoletta, as I wanted you to do, she would have flown at you like a
little tigress a dozen times a week, and kept you on the _qui vive_ to
please her. We know what our own men want. I have half a mind to write
to your wife and tell her that no Italian is comfortable unless he has
his ears boxed twice a day. If your wife would be a little disagreeable,
probably you would adore her. But it is a great mistake, _Pierino mio_,
to confuse marriage and love. In reality, they have no more to do with
one another than a horse-chestnut and a chestnut horse--than the
_zuccone_ that means a vegetable and the _zuccone_ that means a
simpleton. I should imagine that your wet English bird's-nest will force
you to realize this truth with lamentable rapidity.

* * * * *

_From the Princess di San Zenone, Coombe-Bysset, Luton, Bedfordshire, to
Lady Gwendolen Dormer, British Embassy, Vienna._

DEAREST GWEN,--

I did promise, I know, to write to you at once and tell you everything;
and a whole week is gone, and I couldn't do it, I really couldn't; and
even now I don't know where to begin. I suppose I am dreadfully _vieux
jeu_. I suppose you will only laugh at me, and say "spoons." How glad I
am Piero cannot say a word of English, and so I never hear that