But it was in the very height of the outburst, when Fan looked as if she could have crept beneath her seat to hide her diminished head, and Oliver drew down on himself the accusation of being ‘a glum sort,’ that the omnibus rattled past the Meadows, and revealed near the gate, through the vista of thick shrubs, Mrs. Hilliard throwing up her plump white hands in comic protest at the glare and blare of the cavalcade, with the share taken in it by her cousins—half a dozen times removed. For of course as Louisa Hilliard knew everything, she had been made aware beforehand that Fan and Oliver were to be there. She was stationed at the best point to get a passing glimpse of them. She meant them to see her also, and she indulged in that gesture with the mischievous intention of conveying to the brother and sister her pretended opinion that they two were at the bottom of all that blazing colour and deafening noise. Catherine Hilliard with her dogs stood just behind her cousin. She had been lured to the spot without guessing what was to happen. She was in the act of turning away with fretful impatience to avoid the disagreeable shock of the spectacle. It was in violent antagonism to the shadowy, stately world in which she lived, much as a group from the crowded sands at Margate in the season is in opposition to a trio from a Greek play. If she never interfered with the employments and enjoyments of those human beings who had nothing in common with her—save the same origin in the first, and, it was to be hoped, the same interest in the second, Adam—why should they roughly intrude on her notice, compelling her attention and summarily dissolving the spell of memories and fancies which formed her refuge?