The Kembles were our gain in Rome.  I appreciate and admire both of them.  They fail in nothing as you see them nearer.  Noble and upright women, whose social brilliancy is their least distinction!  Mrs. Sartoris is the more tender and tolerant, the more loveable and sympathetical, perhaps, to me.  I should like you to know them both.  Then there is that dear Mr. Page.  Yes, and Harriet Hosmer, the young American sculptress, who is an immense favorite with us both.

A comfort is that Robert is considered here to be looking better than he ever was known to look.  And this notwithstanding the greyness of his beard, which indeed is, in my own mind, very becoming to him, the argentine touch giving a character of elevation and thought to the whole physiognomy.  This greyness was suddenly developed; let me tell you how.  He was in a state of bilious irritability on the morning of his arrival in Rome from exposure to the sun or some such cause, and in a fit of suicidal impatience shaved away his whole beard, whiskers and all!  I cried when I saw him, I was so horror-struck.  I might have gone into hysterics and still been reasonable; for no human being was ever so disfigured by so simple an act.  Of course I said, when I recovered breath and voice, that everything was at an end between him and me if he didn’t let it all grow again directly, and (upon the further advice of his looking-glass) he yielded the point, and the beard grew.  But it grew white, which was the just punishment of the gods—­our sins leave their traces.

Well, poor darling, Robert won’t shock you after all, you can’t choose but be satisfied with his looks.  M. de Monclar swore to me that he was not changed for the intermediate years.

Robert talks of money, of waiting for that, among other hindrances to setting out directly.  Not my fault, be certain, Sarianna!  We seem to have a prospect of letting our house for a year, which, if the thing happens, will give us a lift.

We spent yesterday evening with Lytton at his villa, meeting there Mr. and Mrs. Walpole, Frederick Tennyson, and young Norton (Mrs. Norton’s son), who married the Capri girl.  She was not present, I am sorry to say.  We walked home to the song of nightingales by starlight and firefly-light.  Florence looks to us more beautiful than ever after Rome.  I love the very stones of it, to say nothing of the cypresses and river.

Robert says, ‘Are you nearly done?’ I am done.  Give Penini’s love and mine to the dear nonno, and tell him (and yourself, dear) how delighted we shall be [to] have you both.  You are prepared to go to England, I hope.  By the way, the weather there is said to be murderous through bitter winds, but it must soften as the season advances.  May God bless you!  I am yours in truest love.

BA.

We had a very pleasant vettura journey, Robert will have told you.

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