He had a sudden urge to touch her face and feel the smoothness of her skin. For a split second the recognition of what it was he was thinking (or not thinking) caught him up short in his stride. He looked at her again, puzzled and stunned. The bones in her arms were more delicate than his. The way her hips made her dress flow down to her ankles was suddenly graceful in a way he'd never noticed before.
He laughed. How utterly ridiculous. To be caught unawares by the beauty of a woman was not something that commonly occurred to him. Usually his mind was so occupied with a goal or activity as to prevent the spontaneity of such distracting features of the imagination. He wondered what it would be like to make the beauty of a woman one of those subjects with which he was always so occupied and was reminded of an illustration in a book of plays he'd studied once.
A further thought worried him; he hoped very much that he wasn't falling in love. That particular malady seemed to be common among his peers and seemed also to involve a lot of focus on soft skin and sweet-smelling hair, rosy lips, and all that sort of thing. Did she have rosy lips? He'd no idea. He glanced at her. He couldn't see her mouth.
He doubled the efforts of all of his thoughts on the question of whether he was falling in love, tripped on the train of her skirt, and stood in amazement as she made a very graceful arc and stumbled into a thornless rose bush.