Again, Hamilton spoke with a tactlessness that was fairly appalling:
"Oh, yes, I remember very well. That was before we were married."
"Yes—before!" There was scorn in the emphasis of the repetition. It aroused the husband to knowledge of his blunder.
"I—didn't mean to—" he stammered. "I—I—of course, you understand—Really, dearest, I'm sorry I've been so occupied lately. I hope things will brighten up soon; then, I shall be more sociable. I've thought about our anniversary, too. It's too bad I was tied up that night!"
Cicily rose from her position on the arm of her husband's chair, and strolled across the room.
"Oh, that's all right," she remarked, in an indifferent tone of voice. "Of course, business must come first." Her beautiful face was very somber now; her eyes were turned away from the man.
But Hamilton was amply content. His absorption in other things rendered him somewhat unobservant of certain niceties in expression just now. He sprang up, and went to his wife. With his hands on her shoulders, he declared his satisfaction with the situation as it appeared to him at this time:
"That's my real Cicily—my little girl!... Now, another anniversary—"
"Oh, yes," the wife agreed, "as I reminded you before, there will be plenty of other anniversaries—lots more—so many more!" The melancholy note in her voice escaped the listener, as she had known that it would. His answer was enthusiastic:
"Yes, indeed! Both of our families are long-lived. Do you remember, when we got engaged, how you said it was so awfully serious, because all the women in your family lived to be seventy or more?"