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whose climate is lenient to old stones and statues; whose art is coherent with Nature liken to no other country. To transplant such beauty is the work of vandals. Would that the ghosts of all English and American writers on Italian art return to haunt those art-dealers, "who rush in where [[strikethrough]] angles dare not [[/strikethrough]] angels fear to tread".

November 1st. Our nearest neighbours came to tell us that they have had news of their older son. He was in Greece where the Italians were fighting with the Germans, but now the young soldier is a prisoner of war in Germany, such being the imbroglio of the régime.

The wife of our neighbour is an American, she is devoted to Natalie and well may she be. When war broke out this lady was in America and could not return or communicate with her family. My friend, over ready for a good combination, wrote to her sister in Washington and the upshot was that this American woman was soon able not only to get news of her family but also to return to Italy. "She will be a friend for life," said Natalie, on seeing that her plan was developing favourably. "But," inquired I, "how can you know that you'll want her as a friend for life?" Perhaps to placate my disapproval of her excessive sociability Natalie retorted: "She may be useful." As it is, this neighbor has indeed become Natalie's devoted friend and as such I met her very often. She is at present inflicted with boils brought on by anxiety and the hardships undergone on her trip from America, and though she has lived here some forty years she seems unable to cope with her household