At the end of a warm spring day in New York, James Stuart sat in the open window of his room on Washington Square, smiling. With a sense of deep joy he watched the trees shake the raindrops from their new emerald robes, and the flying clouds that flecked the Western sky melt into seas of purple and gold.
A huckster turned into Fourth Street, crying: "Straw--berries! Straw--berries!"
And the young lawyer laughed lazily.