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.
Her face expressed an agony of shame; she could not raise her eyes, could not speak.