“Try it,” said Unorna, who, like most people, could not long be angry with the gnome-like little sage.

CHAPTER VI

“I could make love—­yes, and since you tell me to try, I will.”

He came and stood before her, straightening his diminutive figure in a comical fashion as though he were imitating a soldier on parade.

“In the first place,” he said, “in order to appreciate my skill, you should realise the immense disadvantages under which I labour.  I am a dwarf, my dear Unorna.  In the presence of that kingly wreck of a Homeric man”—­he pointed to the sleeper beside them—­“I am a Thersites, if not a pigmy.  To have much chance of success I should ask you to close your eyes, and to imagine that my stature matches my voice.  That gift at least, I flatter myself, would have been appreciated on the plains of Troy.  But in other respects I resemble neither the long-haired Greeks nor the trousered Trojans.  I am old and hideous, and in outward appearance I am as like Socrates as in inward disposition I am totally different from him.  Admit, since I admit it, that I am the ugliest and smallest man of your acquaintance.”

“It is not to be denied,” said Unorna with a smile.

“The admission will make the performance so much the more interesting.  And now, as the conjurer says when he begins, observe that there is no deception.  That is the figure of speech called lying, because there is to be nothing but deception from beginning to end.  Did you ever consider the nature of a lie, Unorna?  It is a very interesting subject.”

“I thought you were going to make love to me.”

“True; how easily one forgets those little things!  And yet no woman ever forgave a man who forgot to make love when she expected him to do so.  For a woman, who is a woman, never forgets to be exigent.  And now there is no reprieve, for I have committed myself, am sentenced, and condemned to be made ridiculous in your eyes.  Can there be anything more contemptible, more laughable, more utterly and hopelessly absurd, than an old and ugly man declaring his unrequited passion for a woman who might be his granddaughter?  Is he not like a hoary old owl, who leaves his mousing to perch upon one leg and hoot love ditties at the evening star, or screech out amorous sonnets to the maiden moon?”

“Very like,” said Unorna with a laugh.

“And yet—­my evening star—­dear star of my fast-sinking evening—­golden Unorna—­shall I be cut off from love because my years are many?  Or rather, shall I not love you the more, because the years that are left are few and scantily blessed?  May not your dawn blend with my sunset and make together one short day?”

“That is very pretty,” said Unorna, thoughtfully.  He had the power of making his speech sound like a deep, soft music.