Madame Merle looked at him in the manner of a woman whom no question he could ever put would find unprepared. "Do you wish to know why? Because I've spoken of you to her."
Osmond frowned and turned away. "I'd rather not know that." Then in a moment he pointed out the easel supporting the little water-colour drawing. "Have you seen what's there--my last?"
Madame Merle drew near and considered. "Is it the Venetian Alps--one of your last year's sketches?"
"Yes--but how you guess everything!"
She looked a moment longer, then turned away. "You know I don't care for your drawings."
"I know it, yet I'm always surprised at it. They're really so much better than most people's."
"That may very well be. But as the only thing you do--well, it's so little. I should have liked you to do so many other things: those were my ambitions."
"Yes; you've told me many times--things that were impossible."
"Things that were impossible," said Madame Merle. And then in quite a different tone: "In itself your little picture's very good." She looked about the room--at the old cabinets, pictures, tapestries, surfaces of faded silk. "Your rooms at least are perfect. I'm struck with that afresh whenever I come back; I know none better anywhere. You understand this sort of thing as nobody anywhere does. You've such adorable taste."
"I'm sick of my adorable taste," said Gilbert Osmond.
"You must nevertheless let Miss Archer come and see it. I've told her about it."
"I don't object to showing my things--when people are not idiots."
"You do it delightfully. As cicerone of your museum you appear to particular advantage."
Mr. Osmond, in return for this compliment, simply looked at once colder and more attentive. "Did you say she was rich?"
"She has seventy thousand pounds."
"En ecus bien comptes?"
"There's no doubt whatever about her fortune. I've seen it, as I may say."
"Satisfactory woman!--I mean you. And if I go to see her shall I see the mother?"
"The mother? She has none--nor father either."
"The aunt then--whom did you say?--Mrs. Touchett. I can easily keep her out of the way."
"I don't object to her," said Osmond; "I rather like Mrs. Touchett. She has a sort of old-fashioned character that's passing away--a vivid identity. But that long jackanapes the son--is he about the place?"