Tears, Idle Tears

"Say, Jule," inquired Romeo, casually, "why is it that you don't look like a lady?"

"What do you mean?" demanded Juliet, bristling.

"I don't know just what I mean, but you seem so different from everybody else."

"I'm clean, ain't I?"

"Yes," he admitted, grudgingly.

"And my hair is combed?"

"Sometimes."

"And my white dress is clean, isn't it?"

"Yes, but it doesn't look like--like hers, you know."

"Her? Who's 'her'?"

"You know--Isabel."

Juliet sighed and bit her lips. Her eyes filled with tears and she winked very hard to keep them back. An ominous pain clutched at her loyal little heart.

"What do you want me to do, Romie?" she asked, gently.

"Why, I don't know. Men never know about such things. Just make yourself like her--that's all."

"Huh!" Juliet was scornful now. "I don't know whether I want to look like her or not," she remarked, coldly.

"Why not?" he flashed back.

"And I don't want to be like her, either. She can't do anything. She can't cook, or swing on the trapeze, or skate, or fish, or row, or swim, or climb a tree, or ride horseback, or walk, or anything." "I could teach her," mused Romeo, half to himself. "I taught you."

"Yes," cried Juliet, swallowing the persistent lump in her throat, "and now you've done it, you're ashamed of me!"

"I didn't say so," he temporised.

"You didn't have to. Don't you suppose I can see?"