of which he was capable. He was naturally vain, but her idolatry made him vainer. She considered him wonderful, and he was beginning to think her estimate had some truth in it. She was so proud of him that she rather wearied her friends by the tale of his achievements. She pressed him to allow her to have his diploma and his more florid certificates framed and hung up in the consulting room, but he had said with chilling superiority that such things "were not done," so that she could only console herself by adoring the modesty of men of genius.
One day this happy, ever-busy lady was seized with appendicitis. She had had attacks in her youth, but they had passed away. This attack, although not severe, was graver, and her husband determined, quite wisely, that an operation was necessary. He proposed to ask a well-known surgeon in a neighbouring city to undertake this measure. He told his wife, of course, of his intention, but she would have none of it. "No," she said, "she would not be operated on by stuffy old Mr. Heron.[1] He was no good. She could not bear him even to touch her. If an operation was necessary no one should do it but her husband He was so clever, such a surgeon, and
- ↑ The name is fictitious.
