Helen of Troy; and Rose by Phyllis Bottome

Anastasia was dressed to go out in the Park. It was an exquisite day of early spring. Winter had lingered longer than usual and the green world had been for some time pining and cheerless, an unfilled canvas waiting for its artist -- the sun. The park was a shimmering sea of verdant new-born foliage and young spring flowers. Crocuses and daffodils and hyacinths made summer in the midst of London.

Everybody who was anybody wandered or drove or motored in its precincts, or sat on the green chairs under the trees and looked at each other's clothes, and speculated why So-and-so was -- or was not -- with somebody else; and somehow or other spring struck a note of freshness into even the stalest speculations, and did its best to prick the heart towards beauty and delight.