Beatrice he had put out of his thoughts.  He did not do it deliberately; he made no daring plans; simply he gave himself over to the rising flood of passion, without caring to ask whither it would bear him.  Though it fevered him, there was a luxury in the sense of abandonment once more to desire which suffered no questioning.  That he had ever really loved Beatrice he saw now to be more than doubtful; that he loved Emily was as certain as that he lived.  To compare the images of the two women was to set side by side a life sad and wan with one which bloomed like a royal flower, a face whose lines were wasted by long desolation with one whose loveliness was the fit embodiment of supreme joy.  But in the former he found a beauty of which the other offered no suggestion, a beauty which appealed to him with the most subtle allurements, which drew him as with siren song, which, if he still contemplated it, would inspire him with recklessness.  He made no effort to expel it from his imagination; every hour it was sweeter to forget the facts of life and dream of what might be.

Through this day and that which followed he kept away from home, only returning late at night.  No more news of Beatrice came.  He saw that his father regarded him with looks of curiosity, but only conversation of the wonted kind passed between them.  When Saturday arrived he was no longer in doubt whether to pursue the one faint hope of finding Emily again in Bushey Park; the difficulty was to pass the time till noon, before which it was useless to start.  He was due for the last sitting in the studio at Teddington, but that was an ordeal impossible to go through in his present state of mind.  He went to Hampton by train, lunched again at the King’s Arms, though but hastily, and at length reached the spot in the park where his eyes had discovered Emily reading.

It was not such a day as Wednesday had been; the sun shone intermittently, but there was threatening of rain.  A vehicle now and then drove along the avenue taking holiday-makers to the Palace, and, near the place where Wilfrid walked, a party was picnicking under the trees.  But he in vain sought for one who wandered alone, one who, in the distance, could move him to uncertain hope.

Why had he come?  Suppose he did again meet Emily, what had he to say to her?  Long and useless waiting naturally suggested such thoughts, and the answer to them was a momentary failing at the heart, a touch of fear.  Was he prepared to treat this temporary coldness between Beatrice and himself as a final rupture?  Was his present behaviour exactly that of a man who recognises rules of honour?  If he had no purpose in wishing to see Emily but the satisfaction of a desire about which he would not reason, was it not unqualified treachery in which he was involving himself, treachery to two women and to one of them utter cruelty?  He turned to walk towards the lake, desperate that his hope had failed, and at the same time—­strange contradiction—­glad in the thought that, having once yielded, he might overcome his madness.  He passed the lake, and reached the exit from the park.  At the same moment Emily was entering.