A delicious west wind was blowing.

Little piled-up masses of white cloud had been scattered across the blue sky.
Even the gorse bushes creaked and quivered.

The fir trees in a little spinney close at hand were twisted into all manners of shapes.

Burton listened to their music for a few minutes, and exchanged civilities with a dapple-breasted thrush seated on a clump of heather a few yards away.
Then he rose to his feet, took in a long breath of the fresh morning air, and started briskly across the Common towards the nearest railway station.
He was conscious, after the first few steps, of a dim premonition of some coming change.

It did not affect--indeed, it seemed to increase the lightness of his spirits, yet he was conscious at the back of his brain of a fear which he could not put into words.