"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."