They are solitaries, body and soul; even when
they are curious, and turn to watch the passer-
by, they are essentially alone. Now, no one
ever found that attitude in a squire's figure, or
that look in any country gentleman's eyes.
The squire is not a life-long solitary. He never
bore himself as though he were invisible. He
never had the impersonal ways of a herdsman
in the remoter Apennines, with a blind, blank
hut in the rocks for his dwelling. Millet would
not even have taken him as a model for a soli-
tary in the briefer and milder sylvan solitudes
of France. And yet nothing but a life-long,
habitual, and wild solitariness would be quite
proportionate to a park of any magnitude.

If there is a look of human eyes that tells of
perpetual loneliness, so there is also the familiar
look that is the sign of perpetual crowds. It is
the London expression, and, in its way, the
Paris expression. It is the quickly caught,
though not interested, look, the dull but ready
glance of those who do not know of their for-
feited place apart; who have neither the open
secret nor the close; no reserve, no need of
refuge, no flight nor impulse of flight; no
moods but what they may brave out in the
street, no hope of news from solitary counsels.

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