Could Oswald have anything so serious, anything so solemn in his thoughts? To be sure he had spoken mysteriously of a revelation, a revolution. Cara did not know what to think. She was so young that the idea of anyone being ‘in love’ with her gave a strange thrill of half-alarmed, half-wondering excitement to her being--was it possible that someone thought of a little girl like herself, as of Una, or Rosalind? A little laugh, frightened and faltering, broke from her unawares--and then she blushed crimson and was horrified with herself. Laugh! on such a subject! Her heart began to beat; her head turned round. What could she say to him, what must she do, if it was this that was in Oswald’s thoughts? CHAPTER XXII. MYSTIFIED. ‘My dear boy,’ said Mrs. Meredith, ‘I see what you are thinking of. You are young to settle in life, and about means there might be some difficulty; but to see you happy I would make any sacrifice. Nothing is so important as to make a good choice, which you have done, thank God. That goes beyond every prudential consideration. Nothing else matters in comparison.’ And, as she said this, tears stood in her soft eyes. It was a long speech for Mrs. Meredith. Oswald had come back to the drawing-room in a loose jacket, with some lingering odour of his cigar about him, to bid his mother good-night. She was standing by the mantelpiece with her candle in her hand, while he stood close by, looking down into the fire, caressing the down, scarcely developed into a moustache, on his upper lip, and thus hiding a conscious smile. ‘So you think my choice a good one, mother?’ he said, with a laugh. Mrs. Meredith did not think him serious enough for such a serious moment; but then how useless it is to go on contending with people because they will not feel as you think proper in every emergency! After all, everyone must act according to his nature; the easy man cannot be made restless, nor the light-hearted solemn. This was Mrs. Meredith’s philosophy. But she gave a little sigh, as she had often done, to the frivolity of her elder son. It was late, and the fire was very low upon the hearth--one of the lamps had burned out--the room was dimmer than usual; in a corner Edward sat reading or pretending to read, rather glum, silent, and sad. Oswald, who had come in, in a very pleasant disposition, as indeed he generally was, smoothed his young moustache with great complacency. He saw at once that it was Cara of whom his mother was thinking, and it was not at all disagreeable to him that she should think so. He was quite willing to be taken for Cara’s lover. There was no harm in a little mystification, and the thought on the whole pleased him. ‘Ah, Oswald, I wish you were a little more serious, especially at such a moment,’ said his mother; ‘there are so many things to think of. I wish you would try to realise that it is a very, very important moment in your life.’