"I called you a good fairy, now I am sure of it," said her husband. She smiled.
"Of what use is an income if we may not enjoy it?"
"Absolutely good for nothing," he answered.
"And it's almost selfishness to do little favors that in reality cost only the thought. Some day we must do something big—found an art institute, perhaps on this very coast." She was thinking of his lost cathedral. "Then I should love to help talented young girls with no way of reaching 'head waters.'" He looked at her proudly. "There are so many things needed—so many appeals to choose from, that we will surely find the right place for a little money." Philip remembered the check which she had sent him over a year ago.
Now her desire to make the whole world glad was part of her new happiness. But soon they talked of other matters, or else looked out through the wide window at charming, changing landscape. All afternoon the train climbed the rugged coast range, often boring its way through a tunneled mountain. At five o'clock they had tea on a small table, when a wonderful sunset touched every hill and spur of their upland road. Evening came all too soon. Stars began to peep, and suddenly domestic lights twinkled across a populous valley. Then, near by, the great Pacific beat eternal measure on silver sands. It was eight o'clock when the train stopped in St. Barnabas, at the rear of a noted caravansary flaming electrical welcome. Philip had already engaged rooms. Resigning his checks and suit cases to a waiting porter, he led Isabel down the footpath through a garden of palms and flowers. The way seemed fairyland, while on either hand the breath of blossoms filled the night.
"My wife—my precious wife," he said softly. At their feet stretches of shasta daisies lay as snow. Isabel pressed her husband's arm.
"Could any place be more perfect for our honeymoon?" she asked.
Lapping of waves reached the garden. The newly wed pair did not hasten, yet all too soon the flower-bordered path ended beneath lighted arches. The two went slowly forward, while just how to pass unconcernedly from the clerk's desk to the elevator, made them really seem like "bride and groom." For the first time each secretly acknowledged happy, bewildered self-consciousness. The blazing corridor filled with beautifully gowned women and men in evening dress, groups of older people back from an early dinner, strains of music calling late diners to waiting tables, gave instant local color to both time and place. Philip scrawling personal decoration on the hotel daybook grew careful and wrote the new appendage to his name with telltale neatness. However, it was soon over. Neither looking to right nor left the couple bolted past groups of curious women, were all but safe in the protecting elevator, when a familiar voice spoke Isabel's name. Gay Lewis, alert for sensation, faced the grating of the rising lift. "Delighted to see you!" she called after them. And Philip Barry's wife answered with the smile prescribed under all conditions for a bride.
As they rose above, Philip looked questioningly at Isabel. "An old school friend of mine," she told him. He made a wry face.
"Have you many more of them about the hotel?" She laughed softly.