This young lady indeed, to do her justice, was but little
addicted to the use of conventional terms; there was something earnest
and inventive in her tone, which at times, in its strained
deliberation, suggested a person of high culture speaking a foreign
language. Ralph Touchett subsequently learned that she had at one time
officiated as art-critic to a journal of the other world; but she
appeared, in spite of this fact, to carry in her pocket none of the
small change of admiration. Suddenly, just after he had called her
attention to a charming Constable, she turned and looked at him as
if he himself had been a picture.
"Do you always spend your time like this?" she demanded.
"I seldom spend it so agreeably."
"Well, you know what I mean- without any regular occupation."
"Ah," said Ralph, "I'm the idlest man living."
Miss Stackpole directed her gaze to the Constable again, and Ralph
bespoke her attention for a small Lancret hanging near it, which
represented a gentleman in a pink doublet and hose and a ruff, leaning
against the pedestal of the statue of a nymph in a garden and
playing the guitar to two ladies seated on the grass.
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