The flowers have never been more beautiful than they are this year in San Francisco, and here in Seacliff, the snowballs are in bloom, and in another few days the lilac will be sending their heady, purple fragrance into the barmy Spring air. At this moment, on a bright morning at the end of May, Henry Barbour's lovely garden is hushed and empty. Hushed except for the endless hum of bees and the occasional raucous voice of a drifting gull. Margaret, Hazel's daughter, has stopped by the family home to see her grandfather, peers disappointedly into the garden, before spying Henry pottering around.