And letters of eager thanks were written. After a week or so the game began to lose its fascination. The gifts resembled each other; they began to forget who had given what, and as they wrote the letters of acknowledgment they would shout to each other in despair:
"Oh, Roland, do tell me what Mr Fitzherbert sent us!"
"I can't remember. I'm trying to think who I've got to thank for that butter-dish."
"The butter-dish!—that was Mr Robinson—but Mr Fitzherbert?"
"But the butter-dish wasn't Mr Robinson; he was the clock!"
"Then it was Mrs Evans; and, Roland, do, do think what Mr Fitzherbert gave us."
And so it went on, till at last they began to show a decided preference for cheques.
And there was the honeymoon: that had to be arranged. Muriel would rather like to have gone abroad.
"I've been only twice. We'll see all the foreigners, and sit in cafés, and go to theatres and see if we can understand them."