“He only cares for pictures, papa,” says Mrs. Clive. “He would not drive with me yesterday in the Park, but spent hours in his room, while you were toiling in the City, poor papa!—spent hours painting a horrid beggar-man dressed up as a monk. And this morning, he got up quite early, quite early, and has been out ever so long, and only came in for breakfast just now! just before the bell rung.”
“I like a ride before breakfast,” says Clive.
“A ride! I know where you have been, sir! He goes away morning after morning, to that little Mr. Ridley’s—his chums, papa, and he comes back with his hands all over horrid paint. He did this morning; you know you did, Clive.”
“I did not keep any one waiting, Rosa,” says Clive. “I like to have two or three hours at my painting when I can spare time.” Indeed, the poor fellow used so to run away of summer meetings for Ridley’s instructions, and gallop home again, so as to be in time for the family meal.
“Yes,” cries Rosey, tossing up the cap and ribbons, “he gets up so early in the morning, that at night he falls asleep after dinner; very pleasant and polite, isn’t he, papa?”
“I am up betimes too, my dear,” says the Colonel (many and many a time he must have heard Clive as he left the house); “I have a great many letters to write, affairs of the greatest importance to examine and conduct. Mr. Betts from the City is often with me for hours before I come down to your breakfast-table. A man who has the affairs of such a great bank as ours to look to, must be up with the lark. We are all early risers in India.”
“You dear kind papa!” says little Rosey, with unfeigned admiration; and she puts out one of the plump white little jewelled hands, and pats the lean brown paw of the Colonel which is nearest to her.
“Is Ridley’s picture getting on well, Clive?” asks the Colonel, trying to interest himself about Ridley and his picture.
“Very well; it is beautiful; he has sold it for a great price; they must make him an Academician next year,” replies Clive.
“A most industrious and meritorious young man; he deserves every honour that may happen to him,” says the old soldier. “Rosa, my dear, it is time that you should ask Mr. Ridley to dinner, and Mr. Smee, and some of those gentlemen. We will drive this afternoon and see your portrait.”