Unorna shook her head. There was a momentary relief in discussing the consequences of a love not yet born in him.
“That would not be all,” she said. “You have a country, you have a home, you have obligations--you have all those things which I have not.”
She glanced at him again, for there was a truth in the words which hurt her. Love, at least, was hers in abundance, and he had it not.
“How foolish it is to talk like this!” she exclaimed. “After all, when people love, they care very little what the world says. If I loved any one”--she tried to laugh carelessly--“I am sure I should be indifferent to everything or every one else.”
“I am sure you would be,” assented the Wanderer.
“Why?” She turned rather suddenly upon him. “Why are you sure?”
“In the first place because you say so, and secondly because you have the kind of nature which is above common opinion.”
“Does it give you pleasure to tell me what you think of me?”
“Does it pain you to hear it?” asked the Wanderer, somewhat surprised at the uncertainty of her temper, and involuntarily curious as to the cause of the disturbance.
“I suppose I have grown awkward and tactless in my lonely life. You must forgive me if I do not understand my mistake. But since I have annoyed you, I am sorry for it. Perhaps you do not like such speeches because you think I am flattering you and turning compliments. You are wrong if you think that. I am sincerely attached to you, and I admire you very much. May I not say as much as that?”
“If I may speak of you at all I may express myself with pleasant truths.”
“Truths are not always pleasant. Better not to speak of me at any time.”
“As you will,” answered the Wanderer bending his head as though in submission to her commands. But he did not continue the conversation, and a long silence ensued.
He wandered what was passing in her mind, and his reflections led to no very definite result. Even if the idea of her loving him had presented itself to his intelligence he would have scouted it, partly on the ground of its apparent improbability, and partly, perhaps, because he had of late grown really indolent, and would have resented any occurrence which threatened to disturb the peaceful, objectless course of his days. He put down her quick changes of mood to sudden caprice, which he excused readily enough.