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And I protested, “I'm terribly excited about meeting him.”

So the next day we had lunch together. I was going to go up to Lawrence's in the afternoon--and when I met Douglas, I said, “I'm going crazy. I don't speak Italian, and I'm trying to explain to the fellow”--I'd hired a car and a chauffeur--" how to get to Lawrence's.” Lawrence lived in the hills about 20 miles away. You had to cross the Arno and then go up into the hills. Douglas began explaining to me how to get there and drawing on a napkin. He was not an Automobile of America type, and the more he went on the more confusing he became. Finally I said, “Your directions are incomprehensible. I'll never find him.”

Finally Douglas said, “Oh, you're a fool; I'll have to take you myself.”

Which, of course, was exactly what I wanted. So we got into the car, and off we went to see D. H. Lawrence. All the way there he kept telling me not only what a bastard Lawrence was, but that Freda, Lawrence's wife, had had an affair with every white, colored, yellow and purple man within 20 miles of where they lived. He also continued demanding, why was he going with me? “Because I was such a fool, he had to take me, but this was a very unpleasant trip.” We suddenly rounded the last curve, and there was Mr. Lawrence's villa--an extremely ugly house with a little balcony above the entrance. And standing on the balcony, waving, was Mr. D. H. Lawrence with his red beard. He was unmistakeable. I'd seen all those pictures of him! Suddenly he noticed that there were two men in the back seat--and