Oh yes, he paints, if you please- paints in water-colours; like me,
only better than I. His painting's pretty bad; on the whole I'm rather
glad of that. Fortunately he's very indolent, so indolent that it
amounts to a sort of position. He can say, 'Oh, I do nothing; I'm
too deadly lazy. You can do nothing to-day unless you get up at five
o'clock in the morning.' In that way he becomes a sort of exception;
you feel he might do something if he'd only rise early. He never
speaks of his painting- to people at large; he's too clever for
that. But he has a little girl- a dear little girl; he does speak of
her. He's devoted to her, and if it were a career to be an excellent
father he'd be very distinguished. But I'm afraid that's no better
than the snuff-boxes; perhaps not even so good. Tell me what they do
in America," pursued Madame Merle, who, it must be observed
parenthetically, did not deliver herself all at once of these
reflexions, which are presented in a cluster for the convenience of
the reader. She talked of Florence, where Mr. Osmond lived and where
Mrs. Touchett occupied a mediaeval palace; she talked of Rome, where
she herself had a little pied-a-terre with some rather good old
damask.
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