Mrs. Denyer was florid, vivacious, and of a certain size.  She had seen much of the world, and prided herself on cosmopolitanism; the one thing with which she could not dispense was intellectual society.  This would be her second winter at Naples, but she gave her acquaintances to understand that Italy was by no means the country of her choice; she preferred the northern latitudes, because there the intellectual atmosphere was more bracing.  But for her daughters’ sake she abode here:  “You know, my gills adore Italy.”

Of these young ladies, the two elder—­Barbara and Made line were their seductive names—­had good looks.  Barbara, perhaps twenty-two years old, was rather colourless, somewhat too slim, altogether a trifle limp; but she had a commendable taste in dress.  Madeline, a couple of years younger, presented a more healthy physique and a less common comeliness, but in the matter of costume she lacked her sister’s discretion.  Her colours were ill-matched, her ornaments awkwardly worn; even her hair sought more freedom than was consistent with grace.  The youngest girl, Zillah, who was about nineteen, had been less kindly dealt with by nature; like Barbara, she was of very light complexion, and this accentuated her plainness.  She aimed at no compensation in attire, unless it were that her sober garments exhibited perfect neatness and complete inoffensiveness.  Zillah’s was a good face, in spite of its unattractive features; she had a peculiarly earnest look, a reflective manner, and much conscientiousness of speech.

Common to the three was a resolve to be modern, advanced, and emancipated, or perish in the attempt.  Every one who spoke with them must understand that they were no every-day young ladies, imbued with notions and prejudices recognized as feminine, frittering away their lives amid the follies of the drawing-room and of the circulating library.  Culture was their pursuit, heterodoxy their pride.  If indeed it were true, as Mrs. Bradshaw somewhat acrimoniously declared, that they were all desperately bent on capturing husbands, then assuredly the poor girls went about their enterprise with singular lack of prudence.

Each had her role.  Barbara’s was to pose as the adorer of Italy, the enthusiastic glorifier of Italian unity.  She spoke Italian feebly, but, with English people, never lost an opportunity of babbling its phrases.  Speak to her of Rome, and before long she was sure to murmur rapturously, “Roma capitale d’Italia!”—­the watch-word of antipapal victory.  Of English writers she loved, or affected to love, those only who had found inspiration south of the Alps.  The proud mother repeated a story of Barbara’s going up to the wall of Casa Guidi and kissing it.  In her view, the modern Italians could do no wrong; they were divinely regenerate.  She praised their architecture.