that it has been exhibited out of love for himself; and a man of the Wanderer’s character cannot help feeling a sort of chivalrous respect and delicate forbearance for a woman who loves him sincerely, though against his will, while he will avoid with an almost exaggerated prudence the least word which could be interpreted as an expression of reciprocal tenderness.  He runs the risk, at the same time, of being thrust into the ridiculous position of the man who, though young, assumes the manner and speech of age and delivers himself of grave, paternal advice to one who looks upon him, not as an elder, but as her chosen mate.

After Unorna had spoken, the Wanderer, therefore, held his peace.  He inclined his head a little, as though to admit that her plea of madness might not be wholly imaginary; but he said nothing.  He sat looking at Israel Kafka’s sleeping face and outstretched form, inwardly wondering whether the hours would seem very long before Keyork Arabian returned in the morning and put an end to the situation.  Unorna waited in vain for some response, and at last spoke again.

“Yes,” she said, “I was mad.  You cannot understand it.  I daresay you cannot even understand how I can speak of it now, and yet I cannot help speaking.”

Her manner was more natural and quiet than it had been since the moment of Kafka’s appearance in the cemetery.  The Wanderer noticed the tone.  There was an element of real sadness in it, with a leaven of bitter disappointment and a savour of heartfelt contrition.  She was in earnest now, as she had been before, but in a different way.  He could hardly refuse her a word in answer.

“Unorna,” he said gravely, “remember that you are leaving me no choice.  I cannot leave you alone with that poor fellow, and so, whatever you wish to say, I must hear.  But it would be much better to say nothing about what has happened this evening—­better for you and for me.  Neither men nor women always mean exactly what they say.  We are not angels.  Is it not best to let the matter drop?”

Unorna listened quietly, her eyes upon his face.

“You are not so hard with me as you were,” she said thoughtfully, after a moment’s hesitation, and there was a touch of gratitude in her voice.  As she felt the dim possibility of a return to her former relations of friendship with him, Beatrice and the scene in the church seemed to be very far away.  Again the Wanderer found it difficult to answer.

“It is not for me to be hard, as you call it,” he said quietly.  There was a scarcely perceptible smile on his face, brought there not by any feeling of satisfaction, but by his sense of his own almost laughable perplexity.  He saw that he was very near being driven to the ridiculous necessity of giving her some advice of the paternal kind.  “It is not for me, either, to talk to you of what you have done to Israel Kafka to-day,” he confessed.  “Do not oblige me to say anything about it.  It will be much safer.  You know it all better than I do, and you understand your own reasons, as I never can.  If you are sorry for him now, so much the better—­you will not hurt him any more if you can help it.  If you will say that much about the future I shall be very glad, I confess.”