Even the city, with its mass of stone and brick, rectangles, straight lines, dust, noise, and fever of activity, is penetrated by this divine suggestion of the renewal of life.  You can scarcely open a window without letting in a breath of it; the south wind, the twitter of a sparrow, the rustle of leaves in the squares, the smell of the earth and of some struggling plant in the area, the note of a distant hand-organ softened by distance, are begetting a longing for youth, for green fields, for love.  As Carmen walked down the avenue with Mr. Lyon on a spring morning she almost made herself believe that an unworldly life with this simple-hearted gentleman—­when he should come into his title and estate—­would be more to her liking than the most brilliant success in place and power with Henderson.  Unfortunately the spring influence also suggested the superior attractiveness of the only man who had ever taken her shallow fancy.  And unfortunately the same note of nature suggested to Mr. Lyon the contrast of this artificial piece of loveliness with the domestic life of which he dreamed.

As for Margaret, she opened her heart to the spring without reserve.  It was May.  The soft maples had a purple tinge, the chestnuts showed color, the apple-trees were in bloom (all the air was full of their perfume), the blackbirds were chattering in convention in the tall oaks, the bright leaves and the flowering shrubs were alive with the twittering and singing of darting birds.  The soft, fleecy clouds, hovering as over a world just created, seemed to make near and participant in the scene the delicate blue of the sky.  Margaret—­I remember the morning—­was standing on her piazza, as I passed through the neighborhood drive, with a spray of apple-blossoms in her hand.  For the moment she seemed to embody all the maiden purity of the scene, all its promise.  I said, laughing: 

“We shall have to have you painted as spring.”

“But spring isn’t painted at all,” she replied, holding up the apple —­blossoms, and coming down the piazza with a dancing step.

“And so it won’t last.  We want something permanent,” I was beginning to say, when a carriage passed, going to our house.  “I think that must be Henderson.”

“Ah!” she exclaimed.  Her sunny face clouded at once, and she turned to go in as I hurried away.

It was Mr. Henderson, and there was at least pretense enough of business to occupy us, with Mr. Morgan, the greater part of the day.  It was not till late in the afternoon that Henderson appeared to remember that Margaret was in the neighborhood, and spoke of his intention of calling.  My wife pointed out the way to him across the grounds, and watched him leisurely walking among the trees till he was out of sight.

“What an agreeable man Mr. Henderson is!” she said, turning to me; “most companionable; and yet—­and yet, my dear, I’m glad he is not my husband.  You suit me very well.”  There was an air of conviction about this remark, as if it were the result of deep reflection and comparison, and it was emphasized by the little possessory act of readjusting my necktie—­one of the most subtle of female flatteries.