And then one day--to his complete surprise--he proposed to her in the office of the Woman's Trade Union League. They had gone into the committee-room to consult over the "demands" for the Skirt-Makers' Union. Yetta had drawn up a rough copy and Isadore was to put them into more legal shape. They were leaning together over the big table under the great picture of Jeanne d'Arc, when the grace of Yetta's wrist intruded between his consciousness and the troubles of the skirt-makers. He was always discovering some such new attractiveness about her. "Good God!" he exclaimed, straightening up in vexation of spirit. "What's the matter?" Yetta asked. Isadore realized that this was neither the time nor the place, that neither of them was in the right mood, but he could not help telling her. Yetta stopped him as soon as her amazement had given place to understanding. With the simple directness which was her most outstanding characteristic, she refused even to consider his suggestion. Emphatically she did not love him. For a moment it seemed tremendously important to Isadore to light a cigarette without letting his hand give way to its insane desire to tremble. When it was lit, he looked Yetta squarely in the eyes and knew there was no use in argument. "Well," he said, after a few puffs, "let's finish up these demands." The incident brought their cordial intimacy to an end. Yetta no longer called him by his first name. As before, their work threw them frequently together. Yetta, at first, was afraid of a fresh outbreak--and so was Isadore. He had lost faith in his self-control. But no outsider could have guessed the constraint which underlay their comradely intercourse. Isadore was as much in love as Walter had been with Mabel, but he was of a more masterful disposition. The Work, to which he and Yetta had dedicated their lives, was more important than personal pain. When the business of the day required him to see her, he did not shirk it, but he no longer sought her out. If she did not love him, that ended it. He did not want the hollow mockery of friendship. Yetta's heart was full to overflowing with her romantic dream of Walter. Isadore, the real, the daily, had no chance. If some one had asked her about him, she would have described him in glowing terms, with an enthusiastic tribute to his unusual loyalty and ability. Her respect for him was deep. There was no man of her race nor near her own age whom she held in such high esteem. But when it came to loving him,--unfortunately he was real. His proposal had seemed to her almost preposterous. Not that she felt herself too good for him. On the contrary her love for Walter had increased her very real humility. It was the concreteness of his offer that shocked her.