She is roused from her trembling fantasies by the reality of Mrs. Darcy’s slender arm commandingly hooked into hers, and whirling her away to plaister a barked shin and stem a bleeding nose. But it is only as long as the need for her cobwebs and cold keys lasts that she can keep a hold upon the solid commonplaces of existence. Even while “God save the Queen” is melodiously ringing across the evening meads, even while the gratefully vociferous boys are making their sweet voices hoarse with prolonged cheering from the vehicles packed for their return, she falls back into the uncertain domain of the dream. In the bustle of subsidiary adieux that follow those of the choir, in reciprocal congratulations upon success and thanks for help, Lavinia steals away unnoticed. She gives no directions to her feet whither to carry her, but, though otherwise will-less in the matter, they know that she shrinks from at once regaining the mournful emptiness of the house on the hill. Anywhere else--anything but that! It is all one to her! Only a step to the hop-garden at the foot of Campion Place, only a rough cart-track running between the old red-brick wall of the latter and the green battalions of the hop-poles, now clothed with twining verdure from top to bottom. She strolls, still in a dream, along a green aisle, looking down a vista of apparently unending length, the bines, that have been tied round the poles to prevent their straggling, waving defiant strong tendrils over her head to stretch out and embrace the opposite rank, and make pointed arches of Early English in the green cathedral. Showers of pallid green blooms hang above her, so light and fairy-like in their airy droop, that it seems blasphemy to connect them as necessary concomitants with that contemptible creature--small beer! Parallel aisle upon aisle of riotous verdure, making one gigantic green fane!