In the mornings Evelyn and Ulick lingered in the shade of the chestnut trees or loitered in the lanes.  At one moment they were telling each other of the fatality of their passion; in the next, by some transition of which they were not aware, they found themselves discussing some musical question.  They went for long drives; and Richmond Park, not more than eight or ten miles distant, was at this season a beautiful, plaintive languor.  There was a strange stillness in the air and a tender bloom upon the blue sky which spoke to the heart as no words, as only music could.  The shadows moved listlessly among the bracken, and every vista was an enticement.  Soft rain had allayed the dust of the road, and the distant hillsides seemed in the morning mists extraordinarily blue and romantic.  There were wide prospects suggesting some great domain, and about the large oaks which stood in these open spaces herds of deer browsed, themselves the colour of the approaching month.  About a sudden hillside, brilliantly blue, the evanescent mist hung over the heavy fronds, going out in the sunlight that was breaking through a grey sky.  Ulick exclaimed, “How beautiful,” and at the same moment Evelyn said, “Look at the deer, they are going to jump the railings.”  But the deer ran underneath, and galloped down the sloping park between a line of massive oaks; and the white and the tan hinds and fawns expressed in their life and beauty something which thrilled in the heart, and perforce Evelyn and Ulick remained silent.  The park was wreathed that morning in sunlight and mist, it seemed to invite confidences, and the lovers dreamed of a perfect union of soul.  The carriage was told to wait for them, and they took a path leading under a long line of trees toward high ground.  Carts had passed there, and the ruts were full of water, but the earth about them was a little crisp, as if there had been frost during the night.  They had brought with them a score of “Parsifal,” for it was not yet certain that Evelyn would not play the part of Kundry.  Notwithstanding Ulick’s criticism, she thought she would like to act in the third act.  But they were too interested in each other to open the score, and they were excited by the wonder of Nature in the still morning.  The sky was all silver, and a very little distance bathed the hillsides in beautiful blue tones.  The leaves of the oak trees hung languidly, as if considering the lowly earth to which they must soon return.  Yet the blood was hot and the nerves were highly strung, and life seemed capable of great things in this moody, contemplative morning.  There was a wonder in the little wren that picked her way among the fronds, and a thrill in the scurry of the watchful rabbit; and when they reached the crest of the upland and saw an open expanse of park, with the deer moving away through the mist, their souls dilated, and in happy ecstasy they looked upon Nature with the same innocent wonderment as the first man and woman.