"Good," he laughed. "She was never exactly a chum of mine." "Here are all your business papers," Yetta said, going over to his desk, "receipts and all that." "Oh! bother the receipts," he said. "I want to talk. How's Isadore's paper getting along?" "There isn't any money," she said with a grimace. "There's a note on yesterday's editorial page, which says if they can't raise five thousand this week they'll have to stop. I guess one thousand will keep them going. They'll get it. But in a couple of weeks it will be the same thing over again. I guess it's doomed." "I've been thinking about it," Walter said, "and I've got a scheme. Isadore tackled too much in a daily. That costs such a frightful lot. There isn't yet a big enough Socialist audience to support it. A weekly--a good lively, red-hot weekly--is the thing." He went on to elaborate his idea. Gradually the constraint which Yetta had felt at first wore off. She curled up on the window-seat and listened to his talk as she had done the first day in his room--as she had done ever since in her dreams. She knew it would be hard work to persuade Isadore to give up the daily, but she felt that sooner or later he would have to. And in Walter's scheme was the promise of collaboration and constant association with him. She could hardly be expected to bring forth any serious criticism. While he talked, she had the opportunity to look him over. After all he was not a god. The thing which surprised her most was his hair--it was shot through with irregular patches of gray. But this was only a detail. The soft life of the last few months in Paris had not quite killed the tan which the glare of the Persian sun had given him. He looked very rugged and strong--if his hands had been larger, he might have sat as a model for Rodin. And the halo of fame played about his forehead. The newspapers had given some space to him, and two or three lurid "Sunday stories" had been run about "the siege." They had recounted the various honors which had been given him. Yetta knew that the narrow red ribbon in his buttonhole was the Legion of Honor. And he was calmly proposing to give up what seemed to her a great renown for the obscure career of Socialist propaganda. Her love put forth blossoms. "Gee," he interrupted himself at last. "It's long past lunch-time. Let's go over to the Lafayette. Any of the old waiters still there?" Although Walter insisted that the cooking had deteriorated, it was a resplendent meal to Yetta. The proprietor came to their table and asked if he might present the French Consul, who was lunching there and who wanted to congratulate Walter on the red ribbon. The Consul made a formal and stilted speech on behalf of the French Colony in New York. Yetta was as much impressed as Walter was bored. When this disturbance was over, he made her talk about herself. The meal was finished before she was half through with her news.