not a ripple on the wide lake—not a fleck of cloud in the sky.
Three days later the Gray Gull slipped into a berth at Buffalo, where bride and groom took the train. That same afternoon they were at Wilton Springs—a bit of wood, a bit of stream, and a bit of Adirondacks, with a golf course within easy motoring distance of the hotel. Fay, playful as a kitten, was all effervescent joy over the place and went into fresh raptures on discovering that their suite was not in the hotel, but comprised an entire rustic cottage on the hillside above, with every appointment complete. Great rag rugs covered the floor, and though it was June, there was a chill in the evening air that made the blaze in the cavernous, rough stone fireplace a thing to be lingered by, while the burning pine knots spiced the air with an aromatic quality that was indescribably exhilarating.
Meals came up from the hotel. Servants came with them and with their serving disappeared. The dinner that first night was perfect in every detail, and when they looked up from sipping their coffee, lo, they were alone.
"Alone!" cooed Fay. "Alone!" She seemed to lay so much stress on their being alone. "It was simply wonderful of you, George, to have found this dear, little, homey nest for our honeymoon!" she bubbled, and waltzing round the
