She looked there now, long, deeply, profoundly, and immediately the ferny path up the hill along which she was walking became not entirely a path, but partly the Serpentine; the hawthorn bushes were partly ladies and gentlemen sitting with card-cases and gold-mounted canes; the sheep were partly tall Mayfair houses; everything was partly something else, as if her mind had become a forest with glades branching here and there; things came nearer, and farther, and mingled and separated and made the strangest alliances and combinations in an incessant chequer of light and shade. Except when Canute, the elkhound, chased a rabbit and so reminded her that it must be about half past four⁠—it was indeed twenty-three minutes to six⁠—she forgot the time.