to spend one's honeymoon, isn't it?"

"Any place would be ideal with you Lennie," and she slipped her little
hand into his ruggeder palm.

At last the White Rose Inn was sighted; it was one of those modern
hostelries, built on an old English model. The windows were muslined,
the rooms were wainscoted in oak, the furniture was heavy and
cumbersome. Anna was delighted with everything she saw. Sanderson had
had their sitting-room filled with crimson roses, they were everywhere;
banked on the mantelpiece, on the tables and window-sills. Their
perfume was to Anna like the loving embrace of an old friend.
Jacqueminots had been so closely associated with her acquaintance with
Sanderson, in after years she could never endure their perfume and
their scarlet petals unnerved her, as the sight of blood does some
women.

A trim English maid came to assist "Mrs. Lennox," to unpack her things.
Lunch was waiting in the sitting-room. Sanderson gave minute orders
about the icing of his own particular brand of champagne, which he had
had sent from Boston.

Anna had recovered her good spirits. It seemed "such a jolly lark," as
her husband said.

"Sweetheart, your happiness," he said, and raised his glass to hers.
Her eyes sparkled like the champagne. The honeymoon at the White Rose
Tavern had begun very merrily.