Romeo's young face was set in stern and unaccustomed lines. He, then, was directly responsible for Isabel's tears. He had run over them and hurt Isabel and made everything wrong for her, and, because she was a lady, she wasn't blaming him in the least. She had merely pointed out to him, as gently as she could, what he had done to her.
A bright idea flashed into his mind, as he remembered that he was twenty-one now and could do as he pleased without consulting anybody. He reached into his pocket, drew out a handful of greenbacks and silver, even a gold piece or two. It would serve Juliet just right and make up to Isabel for what he had done.
"I say, Isabel," he began awkwardly. "Would you be willing to marry me?"
Isabel quickly dried her tears. "Why, I don't know," she answered, much astonished. Then the practical side of her nature asserted itself. "Have you got money enough?"
Romeo tendered the handful of currency. "All this, and plenty more in the bank."
"I know, but it was the bank I was talking about. Have you got enough for us to live at a nice hotel and go to the theatre every night?"
"More than that," Romeo asserted, confidently. "I've got loads."
"I—don't know," said Isabel, half to herself. "It would serve them all right. Allison used to be jealous of you," she added, with a sidelong glance that set his youthful heart to fluttering.
"Juliet is jealous of you," Romeo responded disloyally. "We had an awful scrap this morning because I asked her why she didn't try to be a lady, like you."
"Of course," replied Isabel, smoothing her gown with a dainty hand,
"I've always liked Juliet, but I liked you better."