Oswald was playing with a paperknife, balancing it on his finger, and paying no attention. He was thinking of something else with a vague smile on his face. He was as rich almost as he had hoped--made an ‘eldest son’ of, in so far at least that his portion was the biggest; and he was thinking of a house of his own, taking no thought for his mother, and a wife of his own soon to be beguiled out of poke-bonnets and convent cloaks, yet all the more piquant from the comparison. Naturally this was more interesting to him than his mother, and the house that he had been used to for years. But Edward, who, whatever he was himself doing, managed somehow to see what Oswald was about, and who thought he knew what that preoccupation and absorption meant, interposed hastily. ‘Of course my mother will keep her house. It is quite unnecessary to enter into such questions. The economy of the household is unchanged,’ he said. ‘But, my lad, I don’t agree with you,’ said old Sommerville. ‘You may both take to chambers, your brother and you. Most young men do now-a-days, so far as I can see. I will not say whether it’s better for them, or worse for them. Anyhow, your mother must be on her own footing. You must not be dependent on the whimsies of a boy. I would advise you, my dear madam, to look out for a smaller house.’ ‘A smaller house?’ she repeated again, in dismay. ‘Why a smaller house?’ Then her eyes fell upon Oswald. ‘Yes, I understand. Oswald will perhaps--marry. It is quite true; but I have lived in this house so long--I am used to it. I do not wish to change.’ ‘You will not be able to afford it--on your income, madam,’ said old Sommerville, watching her keenly. He was fond of studying mankind, and to see how a fellow-creature encountered a change of fortune was keenly interesting to the old man. She looked at him, opening her eyes wider with a curious gaze of surprise; then paused a moment, looking round her as if for some explanation. ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘I begin to understand.’ Nobody spoke to her; the other two old friends who were present turned aside and talked to each other. Mr. Beresford looked over a photograph book as earnestly as if he hoped to find a fortune between the pages; only the old spy watched the new-made widow, the admired and beloved woman to whom in this distinct way it was becoming apparent that she had not been so much beloved after all.