does not care for politics."

"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."

"Clive does not go to sleep after dinner when Mr. Ridley comes here,"
cries Rosa.

"No; I think it is my turn then