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last as long as life. Osmond went on talking; Goodwood was
vaguely aware that he was touching again upon his perfect
intimacy with his wife. It seemed to him for a moment that
the man had a kind of demonic imagination; it was impos-
sible that without malice he should have selected so unusual
a topic. But what did it matter, after all, whether he were de-
monic or not, and whether she loved him or hated him? She
might hate him to the death without one’s gaining a straw
one’s self. ‘You travel, by the by, with Ralph Touchett,’ Os-
mond said. ‘I suppose that means you’ll move slowly?’
‘I don’t know. I shall do just as he likes.’
‘You’re very accommodating. We’re immensely obliged
to you; you must really let me say it. My wife has proba-
bly expressed to you what we feel. Touchett has been on
our minds all winter; it has looked more than once as if he
would never leave Rome. He ought never to have come; it’s
worse than an imprudence for people in that state to travel;
it’s a kind of indelicacy. I wouldn’t for the world be under
such an obligation to Touchett as he has been to-to my wife
and me. Other people inevitably have to look after him, and
every one isn’t so generous as you.’
‘I’ve nothing else to do,’ Caspar said dryly.
Osmond looked at him a moment askance. ‘You ought
to marry, and then you’d have plenty to do! It’s true that
in that case you wouldn’t be quite so available for deeds of
mercy.’
‘Do you find that as a married man you’re so much occu-
pied?’ the young man mechanically asked.
‘Ah, you see, being married’s in itself an occupation. It

718 The Portrait of a Lady