“Caudle, love, do you know what next Sunday is?
“No! you don’t?
“Well, was there ever such a strange man! Can’t you guess, darling? Next Sunday, dear? Think, love, a minute - just think.
“What! and you don’t know now?
“Ha! if I hadn’t a better memory than you, I don’t know how we should ever get on. Well, then, pet, - shall I tell you what next Sunday is? Why, then, it’s our wedding-day - What are you groaning at, Mr. Caudle? I don’t see anything to groan at. If anybody should groan, I’m sure it isn’t you. No: I rather think it’s I who ought to groan!
“Oh, dear! That’s fourteen years ago. You were a very different man then, Mr. Caudle. What do you say - ?
“And I was a very different woman?
“Not at all - just the same. Oh, you needn’t roll your head about on the pillow in that way: I say, just the same. Well, then, if I’m altered, whose fault is it? Not mine, I’m sure - certainly not. Don’t tell me that I couldn’t talk at all then - I could talk just as well then as I can now; only then I hadn’t the same cause. It’s you who’ve made me talk. What do you say?
“You’re very sorry for it?
“Caudle, you do nothing but insult me.