I may be a slow starter, but I am very firm when roused. I went into the shop, wrote a cheque for the three chests of drawers, and told the man where to send them. When I returned, Celia was at the shop opposite, pulling the drawers out of a real old mahogany chest which was standing on the pavement outside.
"This is even better," she said. "It's perfectly adorable. I wonder if it's more expensive."
"I'll just ask," I said.
I went in and, without an unnecessary word, bought that chest too. Then I came back to Celia. It was 3.45, and on the seventeenth of June at 2.15---- Well, we had four chests of drawers towards it.
"Celia," I said, "we may just do it yet."
III.--THE HONEYMOON
"I know I oughtn't to be dallying here," I said; "I ought to be doing something strenuous in preparation for the wedding. Counting the bells at St. Miriam's, or varnishing the floors in the flat, or---- Tell me what I ought to be doing, Celia, and I'll go on not doing it for a bit."
"There's the honeymoon," said Celia.
"I knew there was something."
"Do tell me what you're doing about it?"
"Thinking about it."
"You haven't written to any one about rooms yet?"
"Celia," I said reproachfully, "you seem to have forgotten why I am marrying you."
When Celia was browbeaten into her present engagement, she said frankly that she was only consenting to marry me because of my pianola, which she had always coveted. In return I pointed out that I was only asking her to marry me because I wanted somebody to write my letters. There opened before me, in that glad moment, a vista of invitations and accounts-rendered all answered promptly by Celia, instead of put off till next month by me. It was a wonderful vision to one who (very properly) detests letter-writing. And yet, here she was, even before the ceremony, expecting me to enter into a deliberate correspondence with all sorts of strange people who as yet had not come into my life at all.
It was too much.
"We will get," I said, "your father to write some letters for us."
"But what's he got to do with it?"
"I don't want to complain of your father, Celia, but it seems to me that he is not doing his fair share. There ought to be a certain give-and-take in the matter. _I_ find you a nice church to be married in--good. _He_ finds you a nice place to honeymoon in--excellent. After all, you are still his daughter."
"All right," said Celia, "I'll ask father to do it. 'Dear Mrs. Bunn, my little boy wants to spend his holidays with you in June. I am writing to ask you if you will take care of him and see that he doesn't do anything dangerous. He has a nice disposition, but wants watching.'" She patted my head gently. "Something like that."
I got up and went to the writing-desk.
"I can see I shall have to do it myself," I sighed. "Give me the address and I'll begin."
"But we haven't quite settled where we're going yet, have we?"
I put the pen down thankfully and went back to the sofa.
"Good! Then I needn't write to-day, anyhow. It is wonderful, dear, how difficulties roll away when you face them. Almost at once we arrive at the conclusion that I needn't write to-day. Splendid! Well, where shall we go? This will want a lot of thought. Perhaps," I added, "I needn't write to-morrow."
"We had almost fixed on England, hadn't we?"
"Somebody was telling me that Lynton was very beautiful. I should like to go to Lynton."
"But _every one_ goes to Lynton for their honeymoon."
"Then let's be original and go to Birmingham. 'The happy couple left for Birmingham, where the honeymoon will be spent.' Sensation."
"'The bride left the train at Ealing.' More sensation."
"I think the great thing," I said, trying to be businesslike, "is to fix the county first. If we fixed on Rutland, then the rest would probably be easy."
"The great thing," said Celia, "is to decide what we want. Sea, or river, or mountains, or--or golf."
At the word golf I coughed and looked out of the window.
Now I am very fond of Celia--I mean of golf, and--what I really mean, of course, is that I am very fond of both of them. But I do think that on a honeymoon Celia should come first. After all, I shall have plenty of other holidays for golf ... although, of course, three weeks in the summer without any golf at all---- Still, I think Celia should come first.
"Our trouble," I said to her, "is that neither of us has ever been on a honeymoon before, and so we've no idea what it will be like. After all, why should we get bored with each other? Surely we don't depend on golf to amuse us?"
"All the same, I think your golf _would_ amuse me," said Celia.
"Besides, I want you to be as happy as you possibly can be."
"Yes, but supposing I was slicing my drives all the time, I should be miserable. I should be torn between the desire to go back to London and have a lesson with the professional and the desire to stay on honeymooning with you. One can't be happy in a quandary like that."
"Very well then, no golf. Settled?"
"Quite. Now then, let's decide about the scenery. What sort of soil do you prefer?"
When I left Celia that day we had agreed on this much: that we wouldn't bother about golf, and that the mountains, rivers, valleys, and so on should be left entirely to nature. All we were to enquire for was (in the words of an advertisement Celia had seen) "a perfect spot for a honeymoon."
In the course of the next day I heard of seven spots; varying from a spot in Surrey "dotted with firs," to a dot in the Pacific spotted with--I forget what, natives probably. Taken together they were the seven only possible spots for a honeymoon.
"We shall have to have seven honeymoons," I said to Celia when I had told her my news. "One honeymoon, one spot."
"Wait," she said. "I have heard of an ideal spot."
"Speaking as a spot expert, I don't think that's necessarily better than an only possible spot," I objected. "Still, tell me about it."
"Well, to begin with, it's close to the sea."
"So we can bathe when we're bored. Good."
"And it's got a river, if you want to fish----"
"I don't. I should hate to catch a fish who was perhaps on his honeymoon too. Still, I like the idea of a river."
"And quite a good mountain, and lovely walks, and, in fact, everything.
Except a picture-palace, luckily."
"It sounds all right," I said doubtfully. "We might just spend the next day or two thinking about my seven spots, and then I might ... possibly ... feel strong enough to write."