“If Mamma hadn’t died,” said Juliet, to herself, “I guess I’d have been as much of a lady as anybody, and nobody would have dared call me a tomboy.”  Her heart ached for the gentle little mother who had died many years ago.  “She would have known,” sighed Juliet.  “Mamma was a lady if anybody ever was, and she didn’t have the money we’ve got either.”

The life of the Crosbys had been bare of luxuries and sometimes even of comforts, until the considerate uncle died and left his money to the twins.  As fortunes go, it was not much, but it seemed inexhaustible to them because they did not know how to spend it.

“I’ll go this very day,” thought Juliet, “and see Aunt Francesca.  I’ll ask her.  If Isabel is there, I’ll have to wait, but if I don’t ask for Isabel, maybe I won’t see her.”

Having decided upon a plan of action, the way seemed easier, so Juliet went about her daily duties with a lighter heart, and even sang after a fashion, as she awkwardly pressed the wrinkles from her white muslin gown.  Though it was September, it was still warm enough to wear it.

Romeo, having only the day before attained his maturity, had taken unto himself the masculine privilege of getting angry at someone else for what he himself had done.  He was furious with Juliet, though he did not trouble himself to ask why.  “The idea,” he muttered, “of her criticising Isabel!”

His wounded sensibilities impelled him to walk past the Bernard house, very slowly, two or three times, but there was no one in sight.  He went to the post-office as a mere matter of habit; there was seldom any mail for the Crosbys except on the first of the month, when the lawyer’s formal note, “enclosing remittance,” came duly to hand.  Nobody seemed to be around—­there was nothing to do.  It would have been natural to go back home, but he was too angry for that, and inwardly vowed to stay away long enough to bring Juliet to her senses.

He recalled the night he had called upon Isabel and had not reached home until late.  He remembered the torrent of tears and Juliet’s cry:  “Oh, Romie!  Romie!  I don’t care where you’ve been as long as I’ve got you back!” It pleased his masculine sense of superiority to know that he had power over a woman’s tears—­to make them come or go, as he chose.

He sauntered slowly toward Kent’s, thinking that he might while away an hour or two there.  It was a long time until midnight, and there seemed to be nothing to do but to sit and wait.  He could ask about the car and whether it was all right now.  If Doctor Jack could run it, maybe they could go out together for a little spin.  It would be nice to go by his own house and never even turn his head.  And, if they could get Isabel to go, too, it would teach Juliet a much-needed lesson.

He had nearly reached his destination when he came upon the picture of Beauty in Distress.  Isabel sat at the roadside, leaning against a tree, sobbing.  Romeo gave a long, low whistle of astonishment.  “Say,” he called, cheerfully, “what’s wrong?”