All this happened because Oswald Meredith, having arrived, as he said, at a crisis in his life, and being one of the people to whom a confidante is needful, had chosen to elect Cara, with whom up to the time of meeting his Perugino Agnes he had been half in love, to that office--so easily are people deceived--not a soul in the room could have believed it possible that the love which he was whispering in Cara’s ear was love for somebody else; nor indeed, so limited were the communications which were possible with so many people close about them, had Cara herself any clear idea on the subject. That he had something to tell her was certain, and she had almost pledged herself to get Aunt Cherry out of the way, and see him alone next day, to receive his confidence. And no fluttering of Cara’s heart, no reluctance to give this promise, or excitement about the explanation, complicated the matter as far as she was concerned. The two who gave rise to all these speculations--to the misery in Edward’s heart, and the joy in Miss Cherry’s--were the two calmest people in the room, and the least occupied by this interview which had made them the observed of all observers. After a while, Mrs. Meredith called to Cara (with a little compunction at disturbing Oswald in his happiness; but for the moment that very evident exhibition of it had lasted long enough, the kind mother thought) and made her come out of her corner and sing. And Oswald went with her to the piano, where the lights were dim as usual, and where her sweet floating young voice rose up, not too loud nor too much in the centre of everything, the very luxury of drawing-room performances. The elder people might talk if they were so disposed without disturbing the singer, or might stop and listen when a high pure tone floated upward like a bird into the skies, and enjoy the momentary ecstasy of it without formal attention to every bar. She sang, ‘If he upbraid’ and ‘Bid me discourse,’ those twin melodies; and those flowing fragments of the divine Ariel, which seem to breathe fragrance as well as sweetness to the ear. Miss Cherry knew the songs by heart; had she not played the accompaniments till her fingers ached, and ‘practised’ them over and over, till the young voice got familiar with them to that height of delicious perfection? But she sat and listened now as if she had never heard them before--asking herself was there not a sweeter, more exquisite tone, born of love and happiness, in Cara’s voice. As for Edward, poor fellow, he never budged from his seat, and never put down his book--of which, however, he had not read a line. She was Oswald’s now and not his. He did not know why it was that this disappointment, this desertion gave him so deep a pang; for he had not been thinking about love, nor had he any experience in it. One more had gone over to Oswald’s side; but somehow the whole world on Edward’s did not feel as if it could balance that one. Why should he listen to those notes that