The lawn is emerald. Dogwood's in, early bloom. Beyond the clipped grass a tangled grove of 100-year old trees shadows a stream that runs into the salt-sweet marsh. With a bit of soggy self- applause, a pair of mallards get airborne and go arrowing southward into the vaulted clouds of the spring sky. You follow their line of flight towards Reynolds Channel, the distant docks of Long Beach and beyond them the Atlantic Ocean, "Not bad;' says Chris Stefan, standing on the arch of a little footbridge that spans his mallards' home-sweet-creek. He takes an ever-present cigar out of his mouth and gestures expansively, lovingly back at his brick colonial home on its six secluded acres complete with terraced pool and discretely formal gardens. His wave dislodges a few dogwood petals.