His wife was not vulgar.

She sat at her ease (much more at her ease than Miss Batchelor), and chattered away about her honeymoon, her bad French, the places she had been to, the people she had seen, and all without any consciousness of her delightful self.

Now it was a continuous stream of minute talk, growing shallower and shallower as it spread over a larger surface; and now her mind had hardly settled on its subject before it was off and away again like a butterfly.

There was one advantage in this excessive lightness of touch, that it left great things as it found them, for great things lay lightly on her soul.

She told everybody she had been to Rome; but imagination simply, refused to picture Mrs.Nevill Tyson in Rome.