“How literal you are!” she exclaimed impatiently.
“I could see no figurative application of your words,” he retorted, beginning to be annoyed at her prolonged ill humour.
“Perhaps there was none.”
“In that case—”
“Oh, do not argue! I detest argument in all shapes, and most of all when I am expected to answer it. You cannot understand me—you never will—” She broke off suddenly and looked at him.
She was angry with him, with herself, with everything, and in her anger she loved him tenfold better than before. Had he not been blinded by his own absolute coldness he must have read her heart in the look she gave him, for his eyes met hers. But he saw nothing. The glance had been involuntary, but Unorna was too thoroughly a woman not to know all that it had expressed and would have conveyed to the mind of any one not utterly incapable of love, all that it might have betrayed 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.