Multiply my works, as they certainly will be multiplied, by means of prints--and what does Art become in my hands?
A Priesthood! In what aspect do I present myself to the public?
As a mere landscape painter?
No! As Grand Consoler!" In the midst of this rhapsody (how wonderfully he resembled Oscar in _his_ bursts of excitement while he was talking!)--in the full torrent of his predictions of his own coming greatness, Lucilla quietly entered the room.

The "Grand Consoler" shut up his portfolio; dropped Painting on the spot; asked for Music, and sat down, a model of conventional propriety, in a corner of the room.

I inquired afterwards, why he had checked himself when she came in.

"Did I ?" he said.

"I don't know why." The thing was really inexplicable.