Everything was resting, and waking in the vivid March sunshine.

As he rode at a foot's pace along the mossy track dappled with anemones, as he noted the thin powder of green on the boles of the beech trees, and the intense blue through the rosy haze of myriad twigs, the slight hunger of his heart increased upon him.

There was a whisper in the air which stirred him vaguely in spite of himself.
At that instant he caught sight of a slight black figure sitting on a fallen tree near the track.
For one moment the Old Adam in him actually suggested that he should ride past, just taking off his hat.

But he had ridden past in life, just taking off his hat, so often that the action lacked novelty.

He almost did it yet again from sheer force of habit.