The couple went to live in Tite Street, Chelsea, in a modest little house.

The drawing-room, however, was decorated by Godwin and quickly gained a certain notoriety.

It was indeed a charming room with an artistic distinction and appeal of its own.
As soon as the dreadful load of poverty was removed, Oscar began to go about a great deal, and his wife would certainly have been invited with him if he had refused invitations addressed to himself alone; but from the beginning he accepted them and consequently after the first few months of marriage his wife went out but little, and later children came and kept her at home.

Having earned a respite from care by his marriage, Oscar did little for the next three years but talk.
Critical observers began to make up their minds that he was a talker and not a writer.

"He was a power in the art," as de Quincey said of Coleridge; "and he carried a new art into the power." Every year this gift grew with him: every year he talked more and more brilliantly, and he was allowed now, and indeed expected, to hold the table.
In London there is no such thing as conversation.