And now there was another little journey, up one hill and down another to a quaint hostelry—almost empty of guests in this early season.
A competent little landlady and an old colored man led them to the suite for which Barry had telephoned. The little landlady smiled at Leila and showed the white roses which Barry had sent for her room, and the old colored man lighted all the candles.
There was a supper set out on the table in their sitting-room, with cold roast chicken and hot biscuits, a bottle of light wine, and a round cake with white frosting.
Leila cut the cake. "To think that I should have a wedding cake," she said to Barry.
So they made a feast of it, but Barry did not open the bottle of wine until their supper was ended. Then he poured two glasses.
"To you," he whispered, and smiled at his bride.
Then before his lips could touch it, he set the glass down hastily, so that it struck against the bottle and broke, and the wine stained the white cloth.
Leila looking up, startled, met a strange look. "Barry," she whispered, "Barry, dear boy."
He rose and blew out the candles.
"Let me tell you—in the dark," he said. "You've got to know, Leila."