It was as if she had come upon the beautiful marble façade of a fairy palace, was invited to enter, and behind the door—nothing. The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. Crossing several fields, newly mown, or filled with lines of tedded hay, she arrived, not without great exertion, at the summit of a hill. She held it down with the poker, looking nervously over her shoulder. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. Marvel, who had been a little discomposed by the treatment he had experienced on Holborn Hill, very composedly filled and lighted his pipe.
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