"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?