And now--solemn and sombre as to their colour, though bland enough as to their faces--appeared at the dining-room door the three rectors. They had hitherto been busy in the church, and were now coming to take some little refreshment for the body, ere the march commenced. The large morocco-covered easy-chair had been left vacant for Dr. Boultby. He was put into it, and Caroline, obeying the instigations of Shirley, who told her now was the time to play the hostess, hastened to hand to her uncle's vast, revered, and, on the whole, worthy friend, a glass of wine and a plate of macaroons. Boultby's churchwardens, patrons of the Sunday school both, as he insisted on their being, were already beside him; Mrs. Sykes and the other ladies of his congregation were on his right hand and on his left, expressing their hopes that he was not fatigued, their fears that the day would be too warm for him. Mrs. Boultby, who held an opinion that when her lord dropped asleep after a good dinner his face became as the face of an angel, was bending over him, tenderly wiping some perspiration, real or imaginary, from his brow. Boultby, in short, was in his glory, and in a round, sound _voix de poitrine_ he rumbled out thanks for attentions and assurances of his tolerable health. Of Caroline he took no manner of notice as she came near, save to accept what she offered. He did not see her--he never did see her; he hardly knew that such a person existed. He saw the macaroons, however, and being fond of sweets, possessed himself of a small handful thereof. 
And now the three rectors appeared at the dining-room door. They had been busy in the church, and were coming to take some refreshment before the march began. The large easy-chair had been left vacant for Dr. Boultby. He was put into it, and Caroline hastened to hand him a glass of wine and a plate of macaroons. Boultby's churchwardens were already beside him, as were Mrs. Sykes and the other ladies of his congregation, expressing their hopes that he was not fatigued. Mrs. Boultby was bending over him, tenderly wiping some perspiration, real or imaginary, from his brow. Boultby, in short, was in his glory. Of Caroline he took no notice, save to accept what she offered. He did not see her - he never did see her; he hardly knew that such a person existed. He saw the macaroons, however.
