“Still,” I said presently, with my hand full of her hand—­“still I daresay we shall get used to it in time—­forgetting the day, I mean.  After about the fourth lapse there will be hardly any sting in our little piece of annual forgetfulness.”

“We mustn’t forget to remember we’ve forgotten it, though, Gerald, so that we can test the waning powers of the sting.”

“I can see this habit growing on us,” I said dreamily; “a few more years and we shall forget we are married even.  I shall come home one day—­ provided I remember where we live—­and be horrified to find you established in my house and using my sealing-wax.  Or maybe I shall arrive with some little offering of early rhubarb or forced artichokes only to be sternly ordered away by a wife who does not recognise me.  ’Please take your greens round to the tradesmen’s entrance,’ you will say coldly.”

“I think,” said Margaret, “that we ought to be extra nice to each other now, seeing how short our married life may be.  Let’s begin at once.  You let me tidy your desk every day for you and—­”

“Won’t twice a week satisfy you?” I asked desperately.

“Perhaps; and anyway”—­she put a little packet into my hand—­“here’s my present to you, even though you did forget yesterday.”

“You are a dear, Margaret.  And now I’ll tell you something.  It was—­”

Just then James came in and announced dinner.  James is all our staff; but her other name is Keziah, so we had no choice.

As we sat down I took a small box out of my pocket.

“Give this to your mistress, please,” I said to James.

“O-o-o.  How ripping of you, Gerald!  So you did remember, after all.”

“As soon as I got to the station this morning,” I said, “I remembered that our wedding-day was to-day.”

Margaret lifted her eyebrows at me.  “To-day?”

“Yes.  You are a little behind—­or in front of—­the times, I’m afraid.  The twenty-fifth was a Tuesday last year, but it’s trying Wednesday for a change now.  Many Happy Returns of the Day, dear.”

We both laughed.

“Now let’s look at our presents,” said Margaret happily.

* * * * *

DORA AT THE PLAY.

    ["You cannot buy a cigarette, or an ice, or a box of chocolates in a
    theatre after eight o’clock—­by order of D.O.R.A.”—­Advt. passim.]

  Attentive swain, whose lady has commanded you to be at her
  Disposal as an escort on a visit to the theatre,
  I give you precious doctrine that is certainly worth sticking to,
  At least as long as Dora is alive on earth and kicking too.

  If you would keep your fair companion satisfied and cheery, some
  Provision must be made to fill the intervals so wearisome,
  For many a gallant fellow has discovered with a shock o’ late
  That after 8 P.M. it’s still a crime to sell a chocolate.