Why this perturbation that caused his hands to tremble, that caused his eyeballs to throb, as he looked and looked, and yet hardly dared to look? He was doing no harm—he was thinking no harm. These thoroughfares were open to all; the May morning was warm and fine and clear; why should not he take his way to Hyde Park as well as another? Even in furtively watching whither they went—in keeping a certain distance between them and him—there was no sort of sacrilege or outrage. If they had turned and confronted him, they could not have recognised him: it was almost impossible they could have observed the young man who was half concealed by the curtains of the room in Musselburgh House. And yet—yet—there was some kind of tremulous wonder in his being so near her—in his being allowed, without let or hindrance, to gaze upon the long-flowing masses of hair, that caught a sheen of light here and there, and stirred with the stirring of the wind. And then the simple grace and ease of her carriage: she held her head more erect in these quiet thoroughfares; sometimes she turned a little to address the old man, and then her refined and sensitive profile became visible, and also the mysterious charm of the long and drooping lashes. He noticed that she never looked at any passer-by; but she did not seem so sad on this fresh morning; she was talking a good deal—and cheerfully, as he hoped. He wished for more sunlight—that the day might brighten all around her—that the warm airs might be sweet with the blossoms of the opening summer. For now they were nearing Hyde Park; and away before them stretched the pale blue vistas of atmosphere under the wide-swaying branches of the maples. They crossed to Grosvenor Gate; they left the dull roar of Park Lane behind them; they passed beneath the trees; and emerged upon the open breadths of verdure, intersected by pale pink roads. Though summer had come prematurely, this was almost an April-like day: there was a south-west wind blowing, and flattening the feathery grasses; there were shafts of misty sunlight striking here and there; while a confusion of clouds, purple and grey and silver, floated heavily through the surcharged sky. The newly-shorn sheep were quite white—for London. A smart young maidservant idly shoving a perambulator had a glory of Spring flowers in her bonnet. The mild air blowing about brought grateful odours—was it from the green-sward all around, or from the more distant masses of hawthorn white and red?