Spring came unusually early that year. By the first of the month a few
willows and thorn bushes in the Park had turned green; then, in a single
day, the entire Park became lovely with golden bell-flowers, and the
first mowing machine clinked over the greenswards leaving a fragrance of
clipped verdure in its wake.

Under a characteristic blue sky April unfolded its myriad leaves beneath
which robins ran over shaven lawns and purple grackle bustled busily
about, and the water fowl quacked and whistled and rushed through the
water nipping and chasing one another or, sidling alongside, began that
nodding, bowing, bobbing acquaintance preliminary to aquatic courtship.

Many of the wild birds had mated; many were mating; amorous caterwauling
on back fences made night an inferno; pigeons cooed and bubbled and made
endless nuisances of themselves all day long.

In lofts, offices, and shops youthful faces, whitened by the winter's
pallour, appeared at open windows gazing into the blue above, or, with,
pretty, inscrutable eyes, studied the passing throng till the lifted
eyes of youth below completed the occult circuit with a smile.

And the spring sunshine grew hot, and sprinkling carts appeared, and the
metropolis moulted its overcoats, and the derby became a burden, and the
annual spring exhibition of the National Academy of Design remained
uncrowded.

Neville, lunching at the Syrinx Club, carelessly caught the ball of
conversation tossed toward him and contributed his final comment: