What could it be?
Then the malevolent sprite who was near him just now whispered: "It is an Italian garden, she has seen such before in other lands; perhaps the man is an Italian--he looks dark enough." So instead of feeling solicitous and gentle with whatever caused her pain--for his manners were usually extremely courteous, however cold--he said almost roughly: "This seems to make you think of something! Well, let us get on and get it over, and then you can go in!" He would be no sympathetic companion for her sentimental musings--over another man! Her lips quivered for a moment, and he saw that he had struck home, and was glad, and grew more furious as he strode along.

He would like to hurt her again if he could, for jealousy can turn an angel into a cruel fiend.

They walked on in silence, and a look almost of fear crept into her tragic eyes.

She dreaded so to come upon Pan and his pipes.

Yes, as they descended the stone steps, there he was in the far distance with his back to them, forever playing his weird music for the delight of all growing things.
She forgot Tristram, forgot she was passionately preoccupied with him and passionately in love, forgot even that she was not alone.