It was one of the first warm days of a belated spring.

A fortnight before, park and hills and garden had been deep in snow.

Now Nature, eager, and one might think ashamed, was rushing at her neglected work, determined to set the full spring going in a minimum of hours.

The grass seemed to be growing, and the trees leafing under the spectator's eyes.

There was already a din of cuckoos in the park, and the nesting birds were busy.
The scene was both familiar and unfamiliar to Lord Buntingford.