He was plunged into a dejected silence, and with hardly a word more he took her home. * * * * * They had a whole week of this warm happiness. He abandoned every other thought, every other pursuit, every other friend. He put aside his work to paint her portrait, and she came every day to his studio. At night he hardly slept at all for his longing for the next day to come and bring her to his studio, that now seemed immense, airy, ample even for such a giant as he felt. . . . He adored her even when she laughed, even when she teased him. He even learned occasionally to laugh at himself. It was worth it to see the amazing happiness he gave her. One morning as he was painting her, he said:-- "I can't believe you are going away." "It is true, more's the pity." "But you are not going, for I will marry you." He said this in a matter-of-fact tone as he went on with his painting. The picture was coming on well and he was pleased with it. He stepped back and looked at it from different angles. It seemed a long time before she made the expected matter-of-fact reply, and he looked up at her. She was hanging her head and plucking at her skirt nervously. She heard him stop in his work, and she replied:-- "I don't . . . think . . . I want to marry you, Mendel. I don't . . . think . . . I want to marry anybody." "I'm making plenty of money and I can get commissions for portraits. I could make it up with Birnbaum. We could go to Italy together." "Don't make it harder for both of us, Mendel. . . . I don't want . . . to marry." "You will go back home, then?" "Please . . . please . . ." she implored him. A fury began to rise in him. He stamped his foot on the ground and struck his brush across the picture. He made a tremendous effort to recover himself, but before he could say another word she had slipped through the door and was gone. He darted after her, and reached the front-door just in time to see her running as hard as she could down the street and round the corner. Just as he was, in his shirt-sleeves, hatless and collarless, he went in to see his mother. He was white-hot with rage, and he walked up to her and looked her up and down as though he were trying to persuade himself that she was to blame. "What do you think the news is now?" Golda put her hand to her heart and looked at him fearfully as she shook her head. "I've been refused," he said, "refused by the Christian girl." "Refused!" cried Golda, who had never heard of such a thing as a girl refusing to marry a rich young man. "Yes. I proposed to her and she refused." "The Christians are all alike," said Golda. "They keep themselves to themselves, and you must do the same." She took a smoked herring from the cupboard and cut it into portions.