Here he broke down; there was nothing fitly rhyming to ‘dream’ which would suit his subject, unless it was something about a ‘wondrous theme,’ which would be commonplace. Here accordingly he stuck, with other monosyllables rushing about hopelessly in his head, in the pleased excitement of a rhymester with a new source of inspiration. Better than staying at home! What would be better than staying at home would be to take this Perugino away to see the other Peruginos in the world, to carry her off to the loveliest places that could be thought of, to wander with her alone by riversides and in green woods and by summer seas. Italy! that would be better than staying at home, better than the ‘House’ with its orphans. Such an idea as this had never crossed Oswald’s mind before. He had thought that he had been in love--indeed, he was in love (was not he?) with Cara even now, and could not be content without her sympathy. But never before had he felt it necessary to think of the other, of the individual he was in love with, first before himself. Now, however, that it had come to him to do this, he did it in his characteristic way. How sweet it would be to carry her off from all these vulgar scenes, to show her everything that was beautiful, to show himself to her as the very source of felicity, the centre of everything! A teacher in a charity school, of course she was poor. He would like to make her rich, to clothe her beautifully, to give her the half of all his own delights. How sweet it would be! and how grateful she would be, and how those liquid brown eyes would look, full of eloquent thanks! He laughed at himself as he went on. Why, this was something new, another delight added to the pleasures of his life, a delight of generosity which he had never known before. To be sure it was all in imagination, but is not imagination the better part of life?