Now," I continued, spreading
myself luxuriously over the chesterfield, "you know how shy I am. Try to
draw me out, dear. I'm waiting."
I lit a cigarette. Margaret looked reproachfully at me.
"What was yesterday?" she said.
"Tuesday, my dear. We will now have a little chat about Tuesday. Coming as
it does so soon after Monday, it not unnaturally exhibits--"
"Tuesday the 25th of February," said Margaret solemnly.
"Possibly, my dear, possibly. But I cannot say that I find your remarks
very interesting. They may be true, or they may not, but they certainly
seem to me to lack that agreeable whimsicality usually so characteristic of
you."
"Our wedding-day," said Margaret impressively.
"Was it really?" I said in a whisper. "And you let it pass without
reminding me. Oh, how could you?"
Margaret smiled.
"I didn't think of it till this morning--after you had gone," she said.
We both smiled. Then we laughed.
"You know, we really are a dreadful couple." I said. "Your fault is greater
than mine, though. I'll tell you why. Everyone knows that a man--especially
a manly man--" I tugged my moustache and let my biceps out for a run--
"never remembers anniversaries, whereas a woman--a womanly woman--does."
Here I plucked a daffodil from a bowl near by and tucked it coyly behind
her ear.
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