“All right—­I will,” he said, grudgingly.  “But I hope Uncle appreciates what we’re doing for him.”

“That’s settled, then,” she responded, cheerfully.  “Then, on our second ride, we’ll take somebody with us.  Who shall we invite?”

“Oughtn’t she to go with us the first time?”

“She?  Who’s ’she’?”

“Miss Ross—­Isabel.  She suggested it, you know.  We might not have thought of it for years.”

Juliet pondered.  “I don’t believe she ought to go the first time, because the day that Uncle died doesn’t mean anything to her, and it’s everything to us.  But we’ll take her on the second trip.  Shall I write to her now and invite her?”

“I don’t believe,” Romeo responded, dryly, “that I’d stop to write an invitation to somebody to go out four months from now in an automobile that isn’t bought yet.”

“But it’s as good as bought,” objected Juliet, “because our minds are made up.  We may forget to ask her.”

“Put it on the slate,” suggested Romeo.

In the hall, near the door, was a large slate suspended by a wire.  The pencil was tied to it.  Here they put down vagrant memoranda and things they planned to acquire in the near future.

Juliet observed that there was only one entry on the slate:  “Military hair brushes for R.”  Underneath she wrote:  “Yellow automobile, four-seated.  Name it ‘The Yellow Peril.’  Brown leather inside.  Get brown clothes to match and trim with yellow.  First ride, June thirtieth, for Uncle.  Second ride, July first, for ourselves.  Invite Isabel Ross.”

“Anything else?” she asked, after reading it aloud.

“Dog biscuit,” yawned Romeo.  “They’re eating too much meat.”

It was very late when they went up-stairs.  Their rooms were across the hall from each other and they slept with the doors open.  The attic had been made into a gymnasium, where they exercised and hardened their muscles when the weather kept them indoors.  A trapeze had been recently put up, and Juliet was learning to swing by her feet.

She lifted her face up to his and received a brotherly peck on the lips.  “Good-night, Jule.”

“Good-night, Romie.  Pleasant dreams.”

It was really morning, but there was no clock to tell them so, for the timepieces in the Crosby mansion were seldom wound.

“Say,” called Romeo.

“What?”

“What do you think of her?”

“Who?”

“Miss—­you know.  Isabel.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” responded Juliet, sleepily.  “I guess she’s kind of a sissy-girl.”

V

AN AFTERNOON CALL

“Aunt Francesca,” asked Isabel, “is Colonel Kent rich?”

“Very,” responded Madame.  She had a fine damask napkin stretched upon embroidery hoops and was darning it with the most exquisite of stitches.

“Then why don’t they live in a better house and have more servants?  That place is old and musty.”