"Where 's Rose?" said the Doctor as he came in that Saturday evening, and heard no welcoming voice from the library or the stairs.
"She came home from the opera with a frightful headache and has gone to bed. She said she did n't want any dinner, but I have insisted upon her having some toast and tea," replied his wife.
"Humph!" growled the Doctor; "Our wild rose can't stand such hot-house atmosphere. When does the Fenlicks' ball come off?"
"Next Wednesday; it will be a superb affair. Rose showed me her card the other day, and if you will believe me, it's full, although Jack Sherrill gets the lion's share."
"How do you think things are coming on there, wifie?"
"Why, he's devoted to her whenever he can be; you know what Mrs. Pearsell told us about last summer, but--"
"But what?" said the Doctor, a little impatiently. "Generally, wifie, you can see prospective wedding-cake if two young people so much as look twice at each other."
Mrs. Heath laughed and nodded. "Yes, I know; but in just this case, I don't know. You can't tell anything by her--and I fear, hubbie, that Jack Sherrill is n't quite good enough for her."
"Not quite good enough for her!" The Doctor almost shouted in his earnestness. "Jack Sherrill not quite good enough for--"
"Sh--sh, dear!" His wife held up her hand in warning. "Someone might hear."