Ridley patronised by an old officer of Indian dragoons, a little
bit of a Rosey, and a fellow who is not fit to lay his palette for him! I
want sometimes to ask J. J.'s pardon, after the Colonel has been talking
to him in his confounded condescending way, uttering some awful bosh
about the fine arts. Rosey follows him, and trips round J. J.'s studio,
and pretends to admire, and says, 'How soft; how sweet!' recalling some
of mamma-in-law's dreadful expressions, which make me shudder when I hear
them. If my poor old father had a confidant into whose arm he could hook
his own, and whom he could pester with his family griefs as I do you, the
dear old boy would have his dreary story to tell too. I hate banks,
bankers, Bundelcund, indigo, cotton, and the whole business. I go to that
confounded board, and never hear one syllable that the fellows are
talking about. I sit there because he wishes me to sit there; don't you
think he sees that my heart is out of the business; that I would rather
be at home in my painting-room? We don't understand each other, but we
feel each other, as it were by instinct.
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