"Wait," said Honoria.
She took a small portfolio from the drawer of a writing desk and from the portfolio a slip of flimsy paper one-quarter of an inch by two inches in size.
"This," said Honoria, inflexibly, "was wrapped about the first one we opened."
"It was a year ago," apologized Ives, as he held out his hand for it,
"As long as skies above are blue
To you, my love, I will be true."
"As long as skies above are blue
To you, my love, I will be true."
This he read from the slip of flimsy paper.
"We were to have sailed a fortnight ago," said Honoria, gossipingly. "It has been such a warm summer. The town is quite deserted. There is nowhere to go. Yet I am told that one or two of the roof gardens are amusing. The singing—and the dancing—on one or two seem to have met with approval."
Ives did not wince. When you are in the ring you are not surprised when your adversary taps you on the ribs.
"I followed the candy man that time," said Ives, irrelevantly, "and gave him five dollars at the corner of Broadway."