the woman who hated him, and he saw no means of escaping her
society so long as she chose to impose it upon them both. He supposed,
too, that Unorna realized this as well as he did, and he tried to be
prepared for all events by revolving all the possibilities in his mind.

But Unorna was absorbed by very different thoughts. From time to time
she stole a glance at his face, and she saw that it was stern and
cold as ever. She had kept her word, but he did not relent. A terrible
anxiety overwhelmed her. It was possible, even probable, that he would
henceforth avoid her. She had gone too far. She had not reckoned upon
such a nature as his, capable of being roused to implacable anger by
mere sympathy for the suffering of another. Then, understanding it at
last, she had thought it would be enough that those sufferings should
be forgotten by him upon whom they had been inflicted. She could not
comprehend the horror he felt for herself and for her hideous cruelty.
She had entered the cemetery in the consciousness of her strong will
and of her mysterious powers certain of victory, sure that having once
sacrificed her pride and stooped so low as to command what should have
come of itself, she should see his face change and hear the ring of
passion in that passionless voice. She had failed in that, and utterly.
She had been surprised by her worst enemy. She had been laughed to
scorn in the moment of her deepest humiliation, and she had lost the
foundations of friendship in the attempt to build upon them the hanging
gardens of an artificial love. In that moment, as they reached the gate,
Unorna was not far from despair.

A Jewish boy, with puffed red lips and curving nostrils, was loitering
at the entrance. The Wanderer told him to find a carriage.

"Two carriages," said Unorna, quickly. The boy ran out. "I will go home
alone," she added. "You two can drive together."

The Wanderer inclined his head in assent, but said nothing. Israel
Kafka's dark eyes rested upon hers for a moment.

"Why not go together?" he asked.

Unorna started slightly and turned as though about to make a sharp
answer. But she checked herself, for the Wanderer was looking at her.
She spoke to him instead of answering Kafka.

"It is the best arrangement--do you not think so?" she asked.

"Quite the best."

"I shall be gratified if you will bring me word of him," she said,
glancing at Kafka.

The Wanderer was silent as though he had not heard.

"Ha