A young setting half-moon still hung in the sky, and there were stars.

One of those nights when all the mystery of life seems to be revealing itself in the one word--Love.

The nightingale throbbed out its note in the copse amidst a perfect stillness, and the ground was soft without a drop of dew.
John Derringham, hatless, and with his hands plunged in the pockets of his dinner coat, wandered down the garden towards the apple tree, picking an early red rosebud as he passed a bush--its scent intoxicated him a little.

Then he went to the gate, and, opening it, he strolled into the park.

Here was a vaster and more perfect view.