“Of course I’m grateful,” said Percival.  “You might tell your young friends I’m willing to be a vice-president of their club—­on the usual terms.  What’s the name of it?”

“They tell me it’s called ‘The Racing Club,’” said Elfred.  “But I think, Sir, you’d better give your subscription to the other club in the village—­’The Sportif Club.’  You see, Sir, they ’ad a match on to-day as well, an’ when they arrived on the ground they found someone ’ad been and scrounged their goal-posts!”

* * * * *

[Illustration:  “I SAY, EXCUSE ME, DEAR OLD TOP, BUT YOU MUSTN’T WEAR THAT GUNNER TIE NOW YOU’RE DEMOBBED. IT SIMPLY ISN’T DONE!”]

* * * * *

THE ANNIVERSARY.

Having unexpectedly retained possession of my seat in the Tube the other evening I over-read myself and ran past my station, so it was rather late when I reached home.

“Hullo!” I called out cheerily.

“Hullo!” echoed Margaret in a flat sort of voice; “you back?”

I refrained from facetiousness and told her that I was.

“Oh!” she said.

“Well, well, Margaret,” I said in a bright and bustling manner, “we haven’t got on very well so far, have we?  Can’t you think of some subject on which we can conduct a conversation in words of more than one syllable?  The skilful hostess should so frame her questions that not even the shyest visitor can fall back on a simple Yes or No.  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.

“It really is rather awful of us.”  Margaret restored the daffodil to its young companions.  “We’ve only been married three years, too, and yet already—­” She threw out her arms in a hopeless gesture.