At a little pond near by some cleanly dressed children were sailing white canvas boats.

In the shade of a green pagoda a bebuttoned officer of the law was resting, his arms folded, his club at rest in his belt.

An old gardener was upon the lawn, with a pair of pruning shears, looking after some bushes.

High overhead was the clean blue sky of the new summer, and in the thickness of the shiny green leaves of the trees hopped and twittered the busy sparrows.
Hurstwood had come out of his own home that morning feeling much of the same old annoyance.

At his store he had idled, there being no need to write.