Part 14 (1/2)

”Helen, for Heaven's sake, _isn't_ there any word but that abominable 'swell' that you can use?” interrupted her husband, seizing the first pretext that offered itself as a scapegoat for his irritation.

Helen laughed and shrugged her shoulders.

”All right; 'stuck up,' then, if you like that better. But, for my part, I like 'swell' best. It's so expressive, so much more swell--there, you see,” she laughed, with another shrug; ”it just says itself. But, really, I do like the doctor. I think he's just grand. Where does he live?”

”Boston.” Burke hated ”grand” only one degree less than ”swell.”

”Is he married?”

”No.”

”How old did you say he was?”

”I didn't say. I don't know. Thirty-five, probably.”

”Why, Burke, what's the matter? What are you so short about? Don't you _like_ it that I like him? I thought you wanted me to like your friends.”

”Yes, yes, I know; and I do, Helen, of course.” Burke got to his feet and took a nervous turn about the tiny room.

Helen watched him with widening eyes. The look of indolent satisfaction was gone from her face. She was not yawning now.

”Why, Burke, what _is_ the matter?” she catechized. ”Wasn't I nice to him? Didn't I talk to him, and just lay myself out to entertain him?

Didn't I ask him to dinner, and--”

”Dinner!” Burke fairly snarled the word out as he wheeled sharply. ”Holy smoke, Helen! I wonder if you think I'd have that man come here to dinner, or come here ever again to hear you-- Oh, hang it all, what am I saying?” he broke off, jerking himself about with a despairing gesture.

Helen came now to her feet. Her eyes blazed.

”I know. You was ashamed of me,” she panted.

”Oh, come, come; nonsense, Helen!”

”You was.”

”Of course I wasn't.”

”Then what was the matter?”

”Nothing; nothing, Helen.”

”There was, too. Don't you suppose I know? But I tried to do all right.

I tried to make you p-proud of me,” she choked. ”I know I didn't talk much at first. I was scared and stupid, he was so fine and grand. And I didn't know a thing about all that Egyptian stuff you was talking about.

Then I thought how 'shamed you'd be of me, and I just made up my mind I _would_ talk and show him it wasn't a--a little fool that you'd married; and I s'posed I was doing what you wanted me to. But I see now I wasn't. I wasn't fine enough for your grand friend. I ain't never fine enough for 'em. But I don't care. I hate 'em all--every one of 'em! I'd rather have Mrs. Jones twice over. _She_ isn't ashamed of me. I thought I was p-pleasing you; and now--now--” Her words were lost in a storm of sobs.

There was but one thing to be done, of course; and Burke did it. He took her in his arms and soothed and petted and praised her. What he said he did not know--nor care, for that matter, so long as it served ever so slightly to dam the flood of Helen's tears. That, for the moment, was the only thing worth living for. The storm pa.s.sed at last, as storms must; but it was still a teary little wife that received her husband's good-night kiss some time later. Burke did not go to sleep very readily that night. In his mind he was going over his prospective meeting with his friend Gleason the next day.

What would Gleason say? How would he act? What would he himself say?