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Edith Dale had returned to New York after three years in Florence. Near the old renaissance city, she had purchased an ancient villa in the mountains and had occupied herself during her sojourn there in transforming it into a perfect environment for the amusing people with whom she surrounded herself. The villa originally had been built without a loggia; this was added, together with a salone in the general style of the old house. The lovely Italian garden was restored. Cypresses pointed their dark green cones towards the sky and gardenias bloomed. White peacocks and statues were imported. Then, with her superlatively excellent taste at her elbow, Edith rushed about Italy in her motor, ravishing prie-Dieu, old pictures, fans, china dogs, tapestries, majolica, and Capo di Monte porcelains, carved and gilded renaissance boxes, fantastic Venetian glass girandoles, refectory tables, divans, and divers bibelots, until the villa became a perfect expression of her mood. When every possible accent had been added, she entertained in the evening. Eleanora Duse, a mournful figure in black velvet, stood on the loggia and gazed out over the hills towards Certosa; Gordon Craig postured in the salone; and Gertrude Stein commemorated the