Sorrell and Son by Warwick Deeping

Kit descended the steps into the Green Park, and after looking at his wrist-watch, strolled on down Queen's Walk. It was the first spring day when the world had ceased suddenly from looking shabby, and the grass--sleeked by the sun--caught the suggestion of a young greenness. The hard eyes of the sky had softened for a moment, and even the faces of men--city men--looked softer and less brutish.

A seat offered itself and Kit sat down under the bare branches of a plane tree. At the other end of the seat two Germans--a man and a girl--kept up a guttural babbling over a Baedeker's guide. The pleasant and diverse facades of the houses warmed themselves in the afternoon sunlight, so individual and so English after the fashion of an England that was dead. Kit found himself gazing at one particular house built of mellow-gold brown bricks, with faded blue blind-cases and a dark old balcony. A chestnut tree was opening its green buds against this background of warm brickwork flecked with blue, and Kit was touched by the beauty of it.