“Nonsense!” exclaimed Lawrence, “it is just the reverse.  With some women,—­for I won’t be personal,—­the aim, as you call it, is very small,—­a poor amusement, another dress, a larger house”——­

“You may stop,” interrupted Isabella, “for you don’t believe this.  At least, keep some of your flings for the women that deserve them; Celia and I don’t accept them.”

“Then we’ll talk of the last aim we were discussing,—­the ride to-morrow.”

The next winter was passed by Mrs. Lester, her daughter, and Isabella in Cuba.  Lawrence Egerton accompanied them thither, and the Doctor hoped to go for them in the spring.  They went on Mrs. Lester’s account.  She had worn herself out with her household labors,—­very uselessly, the Doctor thought,—­so he determined to send her away from them.  Isabella and Celia were very happy all this winter and spring.  With Isabella Spanish took the place of Italian studies.  She liked talking in Spanish.  They made some friends among the residents, as well as among the strangers, particularly the Americans.  Of these last, they enjoyed most the society of Mrs. Blanchard and her son, Otho, who were at the same hotel with them.

The opera, too, was a new delight to Isabella, and even Celia was excited by it.

“It is a little too absurd, to see the dying scene of Romeo and Juliet sung out in an opera!” remarked Lawrence Egerton, one morning; “all the music of the spheres could not have made that scene, last night, otherwise than supremely ridiculous.”

“I am glad you did not sit by us, then,” replied Celia; “Isabella and I were crying.”

“I dare say,” said Lawrence.  “I should be afraid to take you to see a tragedy well acted.  You would both be in hysterics before the killing was over.”

“I should be really afraid,” said Celia, “to see Romeo and Juliet finely performed.  It would be too sad.”

“It would be much better to end it up comfortably,” said Lawrence.  “Why should not Juliet marry her Romeo in peace?”

“It would be impossible!” exclaimed Isabella,—­“impossible to bring together two such hostile families!  Of course the result must be a tragedy.”

“In romances,” answered Lawrence, “that may be necessary; but not in real life.”

“Why not in real life?” asked Isabella.  “When two thunder-clouds meet, there must be an explosion.”

“But we don’t have such hostile families arrayed against each other now-a-days,” said Lawrence.  “The Bianchi and the Neri have died out; unless the feud lives between the whites and the blacks of the present day.”

“Are you sure that it has died out everywhere?” asked Isabella.

“Certainly not,” said Otho Blanchard; “my mother, Bianca Bianco, inherits her name from a long line of ancestry, and with it come its hatreds as well as its loves.”

“You speak like an Italian or Spaniard,” said Lawrence.  “We are cold-blooded Yankees, and in our slow veins such passions do die out.  I should have taken you for an American from your name.”