"Now I like him," she observed emphatically, but not very distinctly (owing to the yawn). "If all your swell friends were—"
"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."