"How stupid of me to fall asleep. We won out at the convention. I came down to write it up. I must have just started to look it over when I went to sleep. You'll have to grind out an editorial on it. I'll finish it up at once."
She sat down to her work.
Isadore found it harder to bring his wits together. But her movement of retreat had been like a blow in the face to him. It steadied him a trifle—but only a trifle. He had kissed Yetta. All these years he had loved her. Suddenly—utterly unexpectedly—the Heavens had opened. He had held her in his arms, he had kissed her.
The foolish idea came to him that he would like to look at his lips, which—after waiting so long—had at last found their goal. As there was no mirror in the office, this was manifestly impossible. But his hand—at least he could look at that—it also had caressed the beloved face. His hand was stained with blood. For an instant he was dazed. Yetta—her cheeks aflame—was bent over her work. A little stream of blood ran down her neck, where a bit of the broken lamp-shade had cut her in its fall.
"Yetta, Yetta!" he cried, "you're wounded."
"What?" she said in amazement. She had been preparing a crushing answer in case he started to make love again. The emotions that were tearing her were too violent to let her take note of a little cut.
"Look," he said, showing her his hand. "Broken glass. On your neck. Let me see."
Impressed by the sight of blood, she bent her head for the examination. But Isadore's ideas of treating such a wound were sentimental rather than scientific.
"Oh, don't. Please!" she protested, agonized by shame. She struggled up to her feet, but somehow she had forgotten the crushing retort she had prepared. "It isn't serious. It doesn't hurt. Please let me finish this work."
Isadore retreated before her distressed eyes.