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pared. ‘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 support-
ing the little water-colour drawing. ‘Have you seen what’s
there—my last?’
Madame Merle drew near and considered. ‘Is it the Ve-
netian 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 im-
possible.’
‘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 cabi-
nets, 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.’

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