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 had 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 each other'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-dove or a nightingale; but it was a