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 ciples are invariably unreasonable. Peter had no principles and therefore he was reasonable. So the next day, he really did drive back with us to Florence, through, the pleasant olive groves and vineyards. A jeroboam of chianti enlivened the journey, and Edith adored the story of Peter's encounter with Death, the Devil, and the Angel.

The Villa Allegra is set on the hills of Arcetri, high above the long cypress-bordered avenue called the Stradone del Poggio Imperiale. The villa is so artfully concealed amongst the cunningly-grouped, gnarled olive trees, eucalypti, myrtles, plane-trees, laurels, pepper-trees, and rows of cypresses, that, until you are in the very courtyard, you are unaware of its propinquity, although, by some curious paradox, the view from the loggia commands the surrounding country. The lovely curve of the façade has been attributed to the hand of Raphæl, and Brunelleschi is said to have designed the cortile, for the physician of the Medici once inhabited this country house, but the completely successful loggia and the great salone were added by Chester Dale.

Peter had never been in Florence before; no more had I; so the romantic charm of this lovely old house in the mountains served to occupy us for several days. We inspected the sunken Roman bath and were thrilled by the rope-ladder, which, when lowered through a trap-door, connected a chamber on the second storey with a room on the first. We were satisfied to sit in the evening under the red