“New York!” she whispered; her radiant look flashed suddenly to him.  “Oh, Jim!” And as they went out he heard a little sigh of utter content beside him.  “It’s too much!” said Julia.  “To go to New York—­with you!”

“Wherever you go, you go with me,” he reminded her, with a glance that brought the swift colour to her face.

Then they went down to the boat.  It was the first hot afternoon of the season; there was a general carrying of coats, and people were using the deck seats; there was even some grumbling at the heat.  But Sausalito was at its loveliest, and Julia felt almost oppressed by the exquisite promise of summer that came with the sudden sound of laughter and voices in lanes that had long been silent, and with the odour of dying grass and drooping buttercups beside the road.  The Toland garden was full of roses, bright in level sunshine, windows and doors were all wide open, and the odours from bowls of flowers drifted about the house.  Barbara, lovely in white, came to meet them.

“Come in, you poor things, you must be roasted!  Jim, you’re as red as a beet; go take a bath!” said Barbara.  “And Julia, Aunt Sanna is here, and she says that you’re to lie down for not less than an hour.  And there are some packages for you, so come up and lie down on my bed, and we’ll open them!”

“Barbara, I am so happy I think my heart will burst!” said Julia, ten minutes later, from Barbara’s pillows.

“Well, you ought to be, my good woman!  Jim Studdiford—­when he’s sober—­is as good a husband as you’re likely to get!” said Barbara, laughing.  “Now, look, Julia, here’s a jam pot from the Fowlers—­Frederic Fowlers—­I call that decent of them!  Janey, come in here and put this jam pot down on Julia’s list!  And this heavy thing from the Penroses.  I hope to goodness it isn’t more carvers!”

It was Barbara who said later to Julia, in a confidential undertone: 

“You know you’ve got to write personal notes for every bit of this stuff, Julia, right away?  Lots of girls do it on their honeymoons.”

“Well, I wanted to ask you, Barbara:  how do I sign myself to these people I’ve never seen:  ’Yours truly’?”

“Oh, heavens, no!  ‘Sincerely yours’ or ‘Yours cordially’ and make ’em short.  The shorter they are the smarter they are, remember that.”

“And if I sign J. P. Studdiford, or Julia P. Studdiford—­then oughtn’t ‘Mrs. J. N.’ go in one corner?”

“Oh, no, you poor webfoot!  No.  Just write a good splashy ’Julia Page Studdiford’ all over the page; they’ll know who you are fast enough!”

“Thanks,” said Julia shyly.

“You’re welcome,” Barbara said, smiling.  “Are you ready to go down?”