Madame,

I have seen your notice in the papers about the woman very fair-haired and petite, who disappeared from our hotel during the disaster of Good Friday night. She had arrived that evening. I remember thinking it was very late for a pretty woman to come alone, but as she was tired and her arm was in a sling, I admitted her without looking at her papers, although I took them to my room to go over in the morning. They were destroyed in the fire caused by the bomb, so I can give you no more information.

I have, madame, the honor, etc., etc.

Joseph M——.

Since surely somewhere in this great world there is a man or woman to whom these letters will have poignant meaning, I have come to the conclusion that it will be well, on the whole, to publish extracts from them, hoping they will be claimed. I am doing so, leaving them much as they were written, with some excisions and few changes, but yet so no one except those concerned could possibly recognize them.

If by some miracle the little lady, who perhaps was Polly herself, and who gave me her old love letters, still lives, I believe she will want them. If she perished on that Good Friday night, or if for reasons of her own, she wishes to remain silent, I hope to be forgiven for publishing them but I feel that I have done only what was my duty.

Isabel Anderson.

PART I
THE DOINGS AND MISDOINGS OF POLLY THE PAGAN

POLLY’S JOURNAL[1]

Steamship Cleopatra,

January.

I don’t know where we are, somewhere on the Mediterranean on our way back from Egypt. It is the middle of the night, but I must write down what has happened, for it’s too exciting! Well! There’s a Russian aboard, and he is a Prince—Aunt discovered that, trust her, she’s absolutely set on my marrying a title. Anyhow we are all at the same table and last night he and I walked on deck together. There was a full moon, by the way, and really there aren’t any other nice young men on board, except Checkers, and brothers don’t count, so of course the Prince and I started a little flirtation. He’s as clever as he can be—very cosmopolitan, rather a mysterious person, and big, with a blonde moustache.

But when I went back to my cabin and put on my rainbow negligée, the one with the wing [Pg 1]
[Pg 2]sleeves, and started over to Aunt’s cabin to bid her goodnight,—why, what do you suppose? I went into the wrong stateroom! Honestly, I was sure hers was 26, but it wasn’t, and the minute I entered I saw I had made a mistake, for there stood the Russian, still dressed and staring out of the porthole. Of course he turned and looked at me; I tried to explain but stuttered in my excitement. He proved to be nice about it, but rather silly, I thought.

The worst of it was, though, that the boat lurched and swung the door shut, and then, of all things, the knob fell off! Really, I was so embarrassed and so furious with myself for being embarrassed, when it was such a chance to show what a woman of the world I was, that my hand shook and I could hardly get the knob into place again. But I did, with the Prince’s help—only I must admit his help didn’t amount to much—however he opened the door and bowed me out as if I were a great lady.

On the whole he really behaved very well, but foreigners are so different from Americans. I’m rather ashamed, so I’m going to dodge him after this if I can.

PRINCE BORIS TO POLLY

Steamship Cleopatra,

The next morning.

My dear Mademoiselle Hummingbird,

In your negligée you looked like a humming bird and I do not know your real name, so may I call you this? Here I am writing to you, weak, weak man that I am. I have no other helper than my dictionary, and it takes me a long time for the writing in English, but I feel you will like it better.

Did I fish[2] much for you last evening? Fishing is not good for going in the Heaven, they say, but I did one good action. The devil pushed me very strongly to kiss you when you came into my cabin, but I bowed you out. That was meritorious. (You can say, “Beautiful, indeed!” as said Wellington, seeing the charge of the French Imperial Guards at the battle of Waterloo.) I hope how God will give me good mark for that in his golden book.

I am reading much today, trying to forget you. The language in the French books is very instructive to the mind but destructive to the moral. The vice of the French or the bragging virtue of the English—which is better? I finish this letter by begging you to walk with me again in the moonlight. Send me a line if you will. I say goodbye till tonight.

Boris.

P.S. You have given me very much pleasure. It is sufficient for me to see and hear you. It make me pairfectly happy just so. I find you very charming.

How shall I say it—like or love you? In French they have only the one word, and the womans understand what they want. How you think? I like lively American girl, not afraid of anything, not even of wicked man.

PRINCE BORIS TO POLLY

Steamship Cleopatra,

The following day.

Dear Mademoiselle Avis,

Did you leave me last night when I try to join you on deck because you not like my letter or was it my foreign gesticulations which frightened you or you find my funs stupid? You angry when I kiss your hands in the moonlight perhaps? But why you not tell me your name and where you live when home?

You said me you just American girl called Polly the Pagan, and you would not interest me,—but you do interest me. Please do not be so jingoist. Is not this word one of your Franklin’s?

Ah! I believe you disappear because it is that we sail in a magic boat among the islands of the gods over water that is—what you call him—fairy water which is bewitched, and at sunset reflect the brilliant plumage of the phoenix and at night the silver of the lady moon.

Maybe men are stupid and women wicked? Was it possible to be more bad as Eve and more dull as Adam?

I say you goodbye, naughty girl.

Boris.

POLLY’S JOURNAL CONTINUED

Rome,

A week later.

I’m