Yetta got up.
"Don't be in a hurry. Nobody gets a chance to resign from my staff twice. Think this over for a couple of days. We've been satisfied with your work; I hoped you were. I hoped that you thought what you were doing was worth while. You can go on doing it indefinitely as far as I can see. You're about to throw up this work because you can't do the impossible. It isn't just The Star. It's a limitation of journalism. No editor in the city could print that story."
"Within twenty-four hours I'll mail it to you in print," Yetta said, moving towards the door.
"So!" he growled. "That's it, is it? Somebody else has offered you a better contract. You forget, of course, that we taught you how to write—that we advertised you—made you. You forget all that as soon as somebody else offers you—"
But Yetta had slammed the door in his face.
Back in her room, she called up Isadore and told him the story.
"I'm mailing you the article to print in The Clarion."
So she made the honorable amend.
"I was half wrong, anyhow," he tried to comfort her. "I never would have believed they'd let you free as long as they did. And besides—you've learned to write. I hope you'll give us some more."