"Very well then, dear, I won't say it," she declared. "Forgive me. What did you make that hole in, seven or eleven?"
"Eleven!" and he smiled at the stab. "As well call it eleven. I'm off even my duffer's game today."
Again the coolness between them had passed as if it had been the shade of a drifting cloud.
But each morning of their stay here, as Fay woke to the ecstasies and delights of a new day, there came always jarring into her mind the thought of Blakeley. His long, gangling form was forever coming in between them—a telegram to read, a letter to sign, a duty to remind her husband of. It was maddening. She had not married Blakeley. Was her life to be forever filled with Blakeleys?
And so from day to day, with hours of rapturous bliss and occasional moments of disillusionment or disappointment, they passed through the allotted period of their honeymoon. In retrospect, from her Detroit home, the trifling discords were forgotten. Fay looked back upon it as a perfect thing.
