J. B. Wheeler was an artist who made a large annual income as an illustrator for the magazines, and it was a surprise to Archie to find that he also went in for this kind of thing.  For the picture, dashingly painted in oils, represented a comfortably plump young woman who, from her rather weak-minded simper and the fact that she wore absolutely nothing except a small dove on her left shoulder, was plainly intended to be the goddess Venus.  Archie was not much of a lad around the picture-galleries, but he knew enough about Art to recognise Venus when he saw her; though once or twice, it is true, artists had double-crossed him by ringing in some such title as “Day Dreams,” or “When the Heart is Young.”

He inspected this picture for awhile, then, returning to his seat, lit a cigarette and began to meditate on Lucille once more.  “Yes, the dear girl had been rummy at breakfast.  She had not exactly said anything or done anything out of the ordinary; but—­well, you know how it is.  We husbands, we lads of the for-better-or-for-worse brigade, we learn to pierce the mask.  There had been in Lucille’s manner that curious, strained sweetness which comes to women whose husbands have failed to match the piece of silk or forgotten to post an important letter.  If his conscience had not been as clear as crystal, Archie would have said that that was what must have been the matter.  But, when Lucille wrote letters, she just stepped out of the suite and dropped them in the mail-chute attached to the elevator.  It couldn’t be that.  And he couldn’t have forgotten anything else, because—­”

“Oh my sainted aunt!”

Archie’s cigarette smouldered, neglected, between his fingers.  His jaw had fallen and his eyes were staring glassily before him.  He was appalled.  His memory was weak, he knew; but never before had it let him down, so scurvily as this.  This was a record.  It stood in a class by itself, printed in red ink and marked with a star, as the bloomer of a lifetime.  For a man may forget many things:  he may forget his name, his umbrella, his nationality, his spats, and the friends of his youth:  but there is one thing which your married man, your in-sickness-and-in-health lizard must not forget:  and that is the anniversary of his wedding-day.

Remorse swept over Archie like a wave.  His heart bled for Lucille.  No wonder the poor girl had been rummy at breakfast.  What girl wouldn’t be rummy at breakfast, tied for life to a ghastly outsider like himself?  He groaned hollowly, and sagged forlornly in his chair:  and, as he did so, the Venus caught his eye.  For it was an eye-catching picture.  You might like it or dislike it, but you could not ignore it.

As a strong swimmer shoots to the surface after a high dive, Archie’s soul rose suddenly from the depths to which it had descended.  He did not often get inspirations, but he got one now.  Hope dawned with a jerk.  The one way out had presented itself to him.  A rich present!  That was the wheeze.  If he returned to her bearing a rich present, he might, with the help of Heaven and a face of brass, succeed in making her believe that he had merely pretended to forget the vital date in order to enhance the surprise.