He meditated upon the problem for several days without reaching any satisfactory conclusion. At last he determined to go up to see Isabel himself, and, as he phrased it in his own mind, "see how the land lays." It would be difficult to elude Juliet, but, in Romeo's experience, the things one determined to do could nearly always be done.
It was an easy matter to make an errand to the City, "to poke 'em up a bit about the machine," and to get the visiting cards, which had promptly been ordered by mail. Juliet rather insisted upon going along, but was easily dissuaded by the fact that "there might be a row, and anyway, it's a man's job."
He came home about dusk with several packages, one of which he carefully concealed under a pile of leaves in the fence corner just inside the yard. He could easily reach through the palings and lift it over the fence as he passed.
Juliet admired the cards, was delighted with a box of chocolates and two new novels, and condescended to approve of Romeo's new red tie. He had gloves in his pocket, but feared to show them to her, gloves being her pet object of scorn.
After they had cleared off the table, Romeo strolled over to the window. Five of the dogs were gathered about some small object and the yard was littered with bits of white. Under his breath Romeo said something that sounded like profanity, and Juliet pricked up her ears.
"What's the matter?" she demanded.
"I brought home some flowers," explained Romeo, carefully, for it was written in the covenant that the twins should never, under any circumstances, lie to each other, "and I must have dropped 'em. The dogs have torn 'em to pieces, box and all."
Juliet clapped her hands gleefully. "I'm glad of it!"
"Why?" he asked quickly, with an uneasy sense that she was a mind- reader.
"Because we've got so many dogs."
Romeo chose to take offence at the innocent remark and relapsed into gloomy silence. Disdaining to speak, Juliet curled up on the decrepit sofa with a book and the chocolates, and presently went to sleep.
"Fortune favours the brave," he quoted to himself, as he tiptoed into the kitchen, cautiously closing the door. A subtle perfume filled the room and he sniffed appreciatively. An open bottle of vanilla extract stood on the kitchen table, where a pan of fudges was cooling, marked off into neat squares. He wrapped the pan in a newspaper, anointed his handkerchief liberally with the fragrant extract, and softly stole out into the night.