e
decorous than old Mrs. Upton, the excellent head nurse at Hardover
Lodge; and no gentleman more discreet in his conduct than General
Talboys.

And I may as well here declare also that there could be no more virtuous
woman than the general's wife. Her marriage vow was to her paramount to
all other vows and bonds whatever. The general's honour was quite safe
when he sent her off to Rome by herself, and he no doubt knew that it
was so. _Illi robur et oes triplex_, of which I believe no weapons of
any assailant could get the better. But nevertheless we used to fancy
that she had no repugnance to impropriety in other women--to what the
world generally calls impropriety. Invincibly attached herself to
the marriage tie, she would constantly speak of it as by no means
necessarily binding on others; and virtuous herself as any griffin
of propriety, she constantly patronised, at any rate, the theory of
infidelity in her neighbours. She was very eager in denouncing the
prejudices of the English world, declaring that she found existence
among them to be no longer possible for herself. She was hot against the
stern unforgiveness of British matrons, and equally eager in reprobating
the stiff conventionalities of a religion in which she said that none
of its votaries had faith, though they all allowed themselves to be
enslaved.

We had at that time a small set at Rome consisting chiefly of English
and Americans, who habitually met at one another's rooms, and spent many
of our evening hours in discussing Italian politics. We were, most
of us, painters, poets, novelists, or sculptors--perhaps I should say
would-be painters, poets, novelists, and sculptors, aspirants hoping
to become some day recognised; and among us Mrs. Talboys took her place
naturally enough on account of a very pretty taste she had for painting.
I do not know that she ever originated anything that was grand, but she
made some nice copies and was fond, at any rate, of art conversation.
She wrote essays too, which she showed in confidence to various
gentlemen, and had some idea of taking lessons in modelling.

In all our circle Conrad Mackinnon, an American, was perhaps the person
most qualified to be styled its leader. He was one who absolutely did
gain his living, and an ample living too, by his pen, and was regarded
on all sides as a literary lion, justified by success in roaring at any
tone he might please. His usual roar was not exactly that of a sucking
dov