"Oh, Fred, take me with you," she coaxed. "It's summer there, isn't it? I've never been abroad."
Woolf avoided her eyes.
"And I've not been well. It would do me good. I'd love to travel with you, Fred. I'd have some new trunks with your initials on them, and I'd look so married and good. Really!"
"Not possible, my dear," said Woolf. "De Freyne wouldn't let you off."
"Yes, he would. He did before. You arranged that, so you can again."
"I'll take you abroad some day," he temporized. "I really can't this time, Maggy. I shall be traveling from place to place. I've arranged dates with a man, and I can't put him off. It's business. Don't plague me about it."
She saw it was no use arguing with him.
"I suppose I may write? What are the places?" she inquired disconsolately.
"Nice, Mentone, Cannes. Nice to start with at any rate. I'm not quite sure of my movements, but I'll let you know. You'd better address me Poste Restante."
"Honeymoon places!" There was a note of longing in her voice. "Well, I suppose I've had mine." She thought of the ring, forgot her chagrin and went on mischievously: "As you're going on your honeymoon I may as well give you your wedding present. Here it is."