‘Never! She has been here two days,’ said Cara.
‘Two days is a very long time, especially when new thoughts are coming into one’s mind, and new resolutions. I think we are all too worldly-minded, Cara. Life is a more serious thing than you and I have been thinking. A great revolution has occurred in my thoughts.’
‘Oh, Oswald! you have been hearing some great preacher; he has made you think? Who was it? I have so often heard of things like that. It must be my fault,’ said Cara, piteously; ‘it never has any effect upon me—but perhaps I never heard anyone good enough.’
‘That is it,’ said Oswald. ‘It was not a preacher, but someone I met casually. I have made up my mind to be a great deal more in earnest—much more serious.’
‘Oh, Oswald! I am so glad! That was all you wanted to make you very, very nice—quite what one wished.’
‘So you did not think me very, very nice, Cara? I flattered myself you did like me. For my part, I never criticised you, or thought anything wanting. You were Cara—that was enough for me. I should have liked to think that simply because I was Oswald——’
‘So it was! If I had not liked you because you were Oswald, should I ever have ventured to say that to you?’ asked Cara, with a little indignation. ‘But you may be very fond of people, and yet see that something would make them still nicer. How happy your mother will be—and Edward——’
‘Edward may go to Jericho!’ said Oswald, with some indignation. ‘What right has he to set himself up as a judge of his elder brother? I can see with the back of my head that he is watching us now, and furious because I am talking to you. You are too gentle, Cara, and have too much consideration for him. A boy like that should be kept in his place—not but that he’s a very good fellow when you don’t bring him forward too much. I wrote a little thing last night that I want to read to you. Shall you be alone at twelve to-morrow if I come in? Do something with Aunt Cherry; send her out shopping—all ladies from the country have shopping to do; or to her dentist, if that is what she has come to town for, poor dear old soul. But anyhow be alone, Cara, to-morrow. I want your opinion of my last poem. The subject is a face that I met by accident in the street—a complete Perugino, as if it had stepped out of a picture; though I don’t know which it resembles most—one of the angels in that great picture in the Louvre, or a Madonna somewhere else—but such colour and such sentiment! I want to read them to you, and to hear what you think.’
‘Yes, Oswald; but tell me about this other thing, this change in your mind.’
‘It is all the same thing; my heart is full of it. You think me mysterious; but I can’t talk freely to-night with all these people so close round us. Listen, Cara,’ he said, approaching his face close to hers, and speaking in a half-whisper of profoundest confidentialness—‘Listen, I want your sympathy. I think I have arrived at a crisis in my life.’