Unorna was not like him, and did not understand such a nature as his as she understood Keyork Arabian. She had believed that he would at least hold out some hope.
“You might have spared me that!” she said, turning her face away. There were tears in her voice.
A few hours earlier his answer would have brought fire to her eyes and anger to her voice. But a real change had come over her, not lasting, perhaps, but strong in its immediate effects.
“Not even a little friendship left?” she said, breaking the silence that followed.
“I cannot change myself,” he answered, almost wishing that he could. “I ought, perhaps,” he added, as though speaking to himself. “I have done enough harm as it is.”
“Harm? To whom?” She looked round suddenly and he saw the moisture in her eyes.
“To him,” he replied, glancing at Kafka, “and to you. You loved him once. I have ruined his life.”
“Loved him? No—I never loved him.” She shook her head, wondering whether she spoke the truth.
“You must have made him think so.”
“I? No—he is mad.” But she shrank before his honest look, and suddenly broke down. “No—I will not lie to you—you are too true—yes, I loved him, or I thought I did, until you came, and I saw that there was no one——”