"I know what it means to a well man," she said.
Isadore began rowing again. Of course Yetta did not know what love means to a well man. She knew that she did not know. She was shocked at herself for the spirit of hostility which had shown in her answer.
"Isadore," she said in a few minutes, "dearest, I love you very, very much. Aren't you content? It seems so sweet to me, just to be together like this. Aren't you content?"
Isadore—like many men of his race—was instinctively wise in regard to women. He did not have to think over his reply.
"No," he said laconically.
He rowed on in silence for several minutes. He did not understand, but he sensed, Yetta's trouble. She was trembling on the threshold of the Great Mystery. When he spoke again, it was to calm and reassure her. Ashore, they sat for a long time in the moonlight, hand in hand. He did nothing to frighten her, and she felt flooded by his tenderness.
A week later he brought up the subject again. They had climbed a mountain in the morning. To be sure, it was a small one, but still a mountain. He had slept most of the afternoon. When supper was over, she read to him a while, and then sent him to bed. When she came to his room to kiss him "good night," he put his arms about her and—as though to show that he was really strong again—he crushed her tightly in his embrace.
"Dearie," he said. "Is your name Yetta or Not-yetta?"
"Not-quite-yet-ta," she panted.