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.