He sank down in the chair, his head in his hands. Yetta's hard words melted as she saw how he was suffering.
"I'm sorry we can't agree on this, Comrade," she said. "We do on most things. Of course I may be making a mistake. But I've got to do what seems right to me—haven't I?"
"Yetta," he said, looking up at her suddenly, "are you in love with Walter Longman?"
She stiffened up at the question, but Isadore cut short her indignation.
"Oh, I know, Yetta. Just loving you doesn't give me a right to ask that question. But sometimes I've thought you loved Walter. He's my best friend. He wouldn't want you to go into this."
He looked at her tensely. It was a minute before she took up his challenge.
"I care a great deal for Walter's good opinion," her voice was low, but even. "I am quite sure he would be glad I had this chance. But even if he thought it was unwise for me to accept it, he would not try to browbeat me."
Isadore had shot his last bolt, it had rebounded on his own head. He fumbled for his hat.
"Good night, Yetta," he said.
"Good night, Mr. Braun."