“Where are you going for your honeymoon?” he asked now, to make conversation.
“I don’t know,” answered Craddock. “We’ve hardly had time to think of it yet.”
“You certainly are very vague in all your plans.”
He shook hands with them, receiving from Bertha a grateful pressure, and went off.
“Have you really not thought of our honeymoon, foolish boy?” asked Bertha.
“No!”
“Well, I have. I’ve made up my mind and settled it all. We’re going to Italy, and I mean to show you Florence and Pisa and Siena. It’ll be simply heavenly. We won’t go to Venice, because it’s too sentimental; self-respecting people can’t make love in gondolas at the end of the nineteenth century.... Oh, I long to be with you in the South, beneath the blue sky and the countless stars of night.”
“I’ve never been abroad before,” he said, without much enthusiasm.
But her fire was quite enough for two. “I know, I shall have the pleasure of unfolding it all to you. I shall enjoy it more than I ever have before; it’ll be so new to you. And we can stay six months if we like.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” he cried. “Think of the farm.”