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."

"Oh, I nearly forgot. I _have_ written, Ronald."

"You have?" I cried. "Then, my dear, what else matters? It's a perfect
spot." I lay back in relief. "And there, thank 'evings, is another thing
settled. Bless you."

"Yes. And, by the way, there _is_ golf quite close too. But that," she
smiled, "needn't prevent us going there."

"Of course not. We shall just ignore the course."

"Perhaps, so as to be on