Margaret smiled.
"I didn't think of it till this morning—after you had gone," she said.
We both smiled. Then we laughed.
"You know, we really are a dreadful couple." I said. "Your fault is greater than mine, though. I'll tell you why. Everyone knows that a man—especially a manly man—" I tugged my moustache and let my biceps out for a run—"never remembers anniversaries, whereas a woman—a womanly woman—does." Here I plucked a daffodil from a bowl near by and tucked it coyly behind her ear.
"It really is rather awful of us." Margaret restored the daffodil to its young companions. "We've only been married three years, too, and yet already—" She threw out her arms in a hopeless gesture.
"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.