The climax was reached when Philip's steps were heard hurrying after them, and Lilias knew as if she had seen the scene, what must have been the delight of Mrs. Stormont as he rose to follow her, and what the dismay and displeasure of Margaret and Jean. She seemed to hear Mrs. Stormont declare that "like will draw to like" all the world over, and to see the gloom upon the face of her mother-sisters. "Oh! Lilias," Katie cried, "here he is coming; he can thank you better than I can; all our happiness we owe to you." Lilias turned blazing with quick wrath upon her persecutor. "Why should _you_ be happy," she cried, "more than other people--and when you are making me a liar? Yes, it is just a liar you are making me!" "Oh, Lilias, you are just an angel!" cried Katie, "and that is what Philip thinks as well as me." "Philip!" cried Lilias, with a passion of disdain. She cast a look at him as he came up, of angry scorn, as if his presumption in forming such an opinion was intolerable. She drew her arm out of Katie's almost with fury, pushed them towards each other, and walked on swiftly with a silent step of passion which devoured the way. She was so full of heat and excitement that when she reached the new house of Murkley, and almost stumbled against Lewis, who was standing against a tree opposite the door, she gave a start of passion, and immediately turned her weapons against him. She cast a glance of angry scorn at the sketch-book in his hand. "Are you here, Mr. Murray?" she cried, "and always your sketch-book, though I never see you draw anything. I wonder what you come for, always to the same spot every day; and it cannot be of any interest to you." Lewis, who had not been prepared for this sudden attack, grew red with an impulse of offence, but checked himself instantly. "You have entirely reason," he said, with his hat in his hand in his foreign way. "I do nothing; I am not, indeed, worth my salt. The sketch-book is no more than an excuse; and it is true," he added, "that I have no right to be here, or to claim an interest----" There is nothing that so covers with discomfiture an angry assailant as the prompt submission of the person assailed, and Lilias was doubly susceptible to this way of putting her in the wrong. She threw down her arms at once, and blushed from head to foot at her own rudeness. "Oh, what was I saying?" she cried--"what business have I to meddle with you, whether you were sketching or not? But it was not you--it was just vexation about--other things." His tone, his look (though she was not looking at him), everything about him, expressed an indignant partisanship, which went to Lilias' heart. "Why should you have any vexation? It is not to be borne!" he cried. Lilias was so touched with this sympathy that it at once blew her cloud away, and made her feel its injustice more than ever, which is a not unusual paradox of feeling.