Page 336 - the-portrait-of-a-lady

‘My ambitions are principally for you,’ said Madame
Merle, looking up at him with a certain courage.
‘That comes back to what I say. I’m part of your life—I
and a thousand others. You’re not selfish—I can’t admit
that. If you were selfish, what should I be? What epithet
would properly describe me?’
‘You’re indolent. For me that’s your worst fault.’
‘I’m afraid it’s really my best.’
‘You don’t care,’ said Madame Merle gravely.
‘No; I don’t think I care much. What sort of a fault do
you call that? My indolence, at any rate, was one of the rea-
sons I didn’t go to Rome. But it was only one of them.’
‘It’s not of importance—to me at least—that you didn’t
go; though I should have been glad to see you. I’m glad you’re
not in Rome now—which you might be, would probably
be, if you had gone there a month ago. There’s something I
should like you to do at present in Florence.’
‘Please remember my indolence,’ said Osmond.
‘I do remember it; but I beg you to forget it. In that way
you’ll have both the virtue and the reward. This is not a
great labour, and it may prove a real interest. How long is it
since you made a new acquaintance?’
‘I don’t think I’ve made any since I made yours.’
‘It’s time then you should make another. There’s a friend
of mine I want you to know.’
Mr. Osmond, in his walk, had gone back to the open
door again and was looking at his daughter as she moved
about in the intense sunshine. ‘What good will it do me?’ he
asked with a sort of genial crudity.

336 The Portrait of a Lady