"Forget," I repeated, somewhat dazedly, I admit. "What is there to forget—except possibly my name, age or color?"
"You needn't worry," flashed Gertrude. "I'll remember those for you—when you need them. I meant," she explained, "about your trunk or railway tickets and so on. But anyway, it doesn't matter. I'll remind you of everything the day before."
I promised to tie a knot in my handkerchief.
"And may I ask," I ventured, "where we are going?"
"I haven't decided yet," Gertrude informed me. "I'll let you know later, Ranny dear."
There is something very wholesome and complete about Gertrude. That is the reason, I suppose, I have so long been fond of her. How she can put up with a dreamer like me is more than I can grasp. Without any picturesque or romantic significance to the phrase, I am a sort of beach comber, sunning myself in her cloudless energy on the indolent sands of life. Every one either tells me or implies that Gertrude is far too good for me. Nor do I doubt it. But I wish we could go on as we are without exposing her to the inconvenience of being married to me. But Gertrude knows best.
"Won't you stay and share my humble crust this evening?" I asked her as she rose to go.
"No, thanks, Ranny," she smiled, somewhat enigmatically, I thought. "We shall often dine together—afterwards."
"Of course," I agreed flippantly. "We may even meet at the races."
"I promised," said Gertrude, "to dine at the Club with Stella Blackwelder—to settle some committee matters before I go away. Shall you be alone, poor thing?"