“I fear it is a bit too dangerous,” replies Isabel, with a yawn. “We should never reach Cuba.”
“Trust me,” assents Don Manada, complacently. “Once on the high seas, the Isabel will lead the Spanish warships a pretty chase.”
“Ah, the name of your schooner is the Isabel?”
“Of our yacht—yes. Is it not happily named?”
“Perhaps so,” answers Mrs. Harding, with an enigmatic expression in her lustrous eyes. “And where should I find your yacht in case I should at the last moment decide to accept your offer of a merry voyage to the tropics?”
“My yacht? I should conduct you to it,” says Don Manada in some surprise.
“Oh, no; that would not do,” objects Isabel. “I should be driven to it veiled just preceding its departure.”
Don Manada looks around the arcade, but there is no one within twenty feet of their table.
“North river, foot of 23d street,” he whispers. “You will go?” as Isabel appears to be hesitating mid conflicting emotions.
“You will promise not to make love to me during the entire voyage?”