"Oh, Walter! answer me! I know you won't lie. And I'll believe you for ever and ever."
And so he could not lie. He buried his face once more in his hands. He did not look up when he heard the rustle of her skirts. He did not see her as she picked up her hat and stood there, the tears in her eyes, waiting—hoping that he would say the word.
He did not look up until he heard the door close behind her. He paced the room aimlessly for several minutes, then filled his pipe and, turning out the light, went back to the window-seat. He was not exactly suffering. He felt himself miserably inert and dead.
But one thing he saw clearly—and it made him glad. Yetta's romance had come while she was still young. She was only twenty-two. Life would pick her up again. It might be Isadore, it might be some one else. But her pulse was too strong to let her decay. There are many real joys in life if you get rid of romance early enough.
Time was when he had felt as she did, when nothing but the best seemed worth having. He saw clearly that what he could have given her would not have satisfied her.
Yetta had not stopped to put on her hat. Her eyes dimmed with tears, she had stumbled down the stairs and out across the street into the Square, towards home. Then she remembered that it was early, that her room-mate would be still awake. She could not go home. There were many people about, some stretched on the grass, some grouped on the benches, some strolling about. Many noticed the hatless girl who shuffled along blindly. And presently she ran into Isadore. He also was walking about aimlessly, his head bent, his hands deep in his pockets.
"Good God, Yetta," he cried in amazement, "what's wrong?"
She raised her tear-wet face to him, stretching out her hand towards the familiar voice.
"We're not going to get married," she said.