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. "Wipe the blood off your lips," she ordered sternly. Then she sat down again, utterly confused. It seemed such a stupid, inane thing she had said. It was all her fault, she unjustly told herself. If only she had kept her wits that first moment instead of being so childishly frightened. She felt humiliated. It took an extreme effort of will to turn her attention to the garment workers and the article she must correct. It would have helped if she could have heard the scratching of his pen or the rustle of his newspaper. There was not a sound from his desk. She did not dare to look around. At last the task was finished. She put on her cloak and hat and wrapped the muffler about her throat before she found courage to look at Isadore. He was sunk down in his chair, watching her hungrily. She bit her lip at the sight and had trouble speaking. "Isad--Comrade, here's the copy. I hope you can make an editorial out of it. It's awfully important for Organized Labor.--This convention has finished me. I'm dead tired. I'll take a vacation to-morrow--I mean to-day--and sleep." Isadore did not reply. He just looked at her, a dumb plea in his eyes--which she did not want to seem to understand. "So long," she said. She was almost out of sight before he spoke. "You'll come back? When you're rested?" "Why, yes," she said. "Of course." It was at least half an hour before Isadore pulled himself together and got to work. But the editorial which he wrote on the Federated Garment Trades was very creditable.