uncertainty of her temper, and involuntarily curious as to the cause
of the disturbance.

"Sometimes it does," Unorna answered.

"I suppose I have grown awkward and tactless in my lonely life. You must
forgive me if I do not understand my mistake. But since I have annoyed
you, I am sorry for it. Perhaps you do not like such speeches because
you think I am flattering you and turning compliments. You are wrong if
you think that. I am sincerely attached to you, and I admire you very
much. May I not say as much as that?"

"Does it do any good to say it?"

"If I may speak of you at all I may express myself with pleasant
truths."

"Truths are not always pleasant. Better not to speak of me at any time."

"As you will," answered the Wanderer bending his head as though in
submission to her commands. But he did not continue the conversation,
and a long silence ensued.

He wandered what was passing in her mind, and his reflections led to no
very definite result. Even if the idea of her loving him had presented
itself to his intelligence he would have scouted it, partly on the
ground of its apparent improbability, and partly, perhaps, because
he had of late grown really indolent, and would have resented any
occurrence which threatened to disturb the peaceful, objectless course
of his days. He put down her quick changes of mood to sudden caprice,
which he excused readily enough.

"Why are you so silent?" Unorna asked, after a time.

"I was thinking of you," he answered, with a smile. "And since you
forbade me to speak of you, I said nothing."

"How literal you are!" she exclaimed impatiently.

"I could see no figurative application of your words," he retorted,
beginning to be annoyed at her prolonged ill humour.

"Perhaps there was none."

"In that case--"

"Oh, do not argue! I detest argument in all shapes, and most of all when
I am expected to answer it. You cannot understand me--you never will--"
She broke off suddenly and looked at him.

She was angry with him, with herself, with everything, and in her anger
she loved him tenfold better than before. Had he not been blinded by his
own absolute coldness he must have read her heart in the look she gave
him, for his eyes met hers. But he saw nothing. The glance had been
involuntary, but Unorna was too thoroughly a woman not to know all that
it had expressed and would have conveyed to the mind of any one not
utterly incapable of love, all that it might have betray