“Less young than I was then,” Unorna answered with a little sigh, followed instantly by a smile.
“I am five and twenty,” said Beatrice, woman enough to try and force a confession from her new acquaintance.
“Are you? I would not have thought it—we are nearly of an age—quite, perhaps, for I am not yet twenty-six. But then, it is not the years—” She stopped suddenly.
Beatrice wondered whether Unorna were married or not. Considering the age she admitted and her extreme beauty it seemed probable that she must be. It occurred to her that the acquaintance had been made without any presentation, and that neither knew the other’s name.
“Since I am a little the younger,” she said, “I should tell you who I am.”
Unorna made a slight movement. She was on the point of saying that she knew already—and too well.
“I am Beatrice Varanger.”
“I am Unorna.” She could not help a sort of cold defiance that sounded in her tone as she pronounced the only name she could call hers.
“Unorna?” Beatrice repeated, courteously enough, but with an air of surprise.
“Yes—that is all. It seems strange to you? They called me so because I was born in February, in the month we call Unor. Indeed it is strange, and so is my story—though it would have little interest for you.”