nderstand 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."

"Do you think that there is anything which I will not do--if you ask
it?" Unorna asked very earnestly.

"I do not know," the Wanderer answered, trying to seem to ignore
the meaning conveyed by her tone. "Some things are harder to do than
others----"

"Ask me the hardest!" she exclaimed. "Ask me to tell you the whole
truth----"

"No," he said firmly, in the hope of checking an outburst o