“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?”
“He’s there, but he won’t trouble you.”