ANTICIPATION
“Are you given to remembering dates, Elice?”
There had been a pause,—one of the inevitable, normal pauses that occur when two people who are intimate are alone and conversation drifts where it will. Into this particular void, without preamble, entered this question.
“Sometimes. Why?”
“Not always, then?”
“No. I haven’t any particular tendency that way that I know of. Possibly I’m not yet old enough for it to develop.”
“To be more specific, then, to-day is December the sixth.” Darley Roberts’ eyelids narrowed whimsically. “Does that particular date have any special significance, recall anything out of the ordinary to you?”
Elice Gleason glanced up from the four-leafed clover she was bringing to life on the scrap of 166 linen in her lap, and looked at her companion thoughtfully.
“From the way you come at me, point blank,” she smiled, “I have no doubt it should. Your chance questions, I’ve discovered, always do have a string attached to them somewhere. But just at this particular moment I admit December the sixth recalls nothing in particular.”
“Not even when I add, at approximately eight o’clock in the evening? It’s that now. I’ve been consulting the timepiece over there.”