ed even to this
man who was her friend and talked of being her brother. She realised
with terrible vividness the extent of her own passion and the appalling
indifference of its objet. A wave of despair rose and swept over her
heart. Her sight grew dim and she was conscious of sharp physical pain.
She did not even attempt to speak, for she had no thoughts which could
take the shape of words. She leaned back in her chair, and tried to draw
her breath, closing her eyes, and wishing she were alone.

"What is the matter?" asked the Wanderer, watching her in surprise.

She did not answer. He rose and stood beside her, and lightly touched
her hand.

"Are you ill?" he asked again.

She pushed him away, almost roughly.

"No," she answered shortly.

Then, all at once, as though repenting of her gesture, her hand sought
his again, pressed it hard for a moment, and let it fall.

"It is nothing," she said. "It will pass. Forgive me."

"Did anything I said----" he began.

"No, no; how absurd!"

"Shall I go. Yes, you would rather be alone----" he hesitated.

"No--yes--yes, go away and come back later. It is the heat perhaps; is
it not hot here?"

"I daresay," he answered absently.

He took her hand and then left her, wondering exceedingly over a matter
which was of the simplest.

It was some time before Unorna realised that he was gone. She had
suffered a severe shock, not to be explained by any word or words
which he had spoken, as much as by the revelation of her own utter
powerlessness, of her total failure to touch his heart, but most
directly of all the consequence of a sincere passion which was assuming
dangerous proportions and which threatened to sweep away even her pride
in its irresistible course.

She grew calmer when she found herself alone, but in a manner she grew
also more desperate. A resolution began to form itself in her mind
which she would have despised and driven out of her thoughts a few hours
earlier; a resolution destined to lead to strange results. She began to
think of resorting once more to a means other than natural in order to
influence the man she loved.

In the first moments she had felt sure of herself, and the certainty
that the Wanderer had forgotten Beatrice as completely as though she had
never existed had seemed to Unorna a complete triumph. With little or no
common vanity she had nevertheless felt sure that the man must love
her for her own sake. She knew, when she thought of