The Wanderer was silent for a few seconds. His difficulties were increasing. A while ago he had told her, as an excuse for herself, that men and women did not always mean exactly what they said, and even now he did not set himself up in his own mind as an exception to the rule. Very honourable and truthful men do not act upon any set of principles in regard to truth and honour. Their instinctively brave actions and naturally noble truthfulness make those principles which are held up to the unworthy for imitation, by those whose business is the teaching of what is good. The Wanderer’s only hesitation lay between answering the question or not answering it. “Shall we be friends again?” Unorna asked a second time, in a low tone. “Shall we go back to the beginning?” “I do not see how that is possible,” he answered slowly. 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----” But she checked herself, as she felt the blood rising to her cheeks. She could blush still, and still be ashamed. Even she was not all bad, now that she was calm and that the change had come over her. “You see,” the Wanderer said gently, “I am to blame for it all.” “For it all? No--not for the thousandth part of it all. What blame have you in being what you are? Blame God in Heaven--for making such a man. Blame me for what you know; blame me for all that you will not let me tell you. Blame Kafka for his mad belief in me and Keyork Arabian for the rest--but do not blame yourself--oh, no! Not that!” “Do not talk like that, Unorna,” he said. “Be just first.” “What is justice?” she asked. Then she turned her head away again. “If you knew what justice means for me--you would not ask me to be just. You would be more merciful.” “You exaggerate----” He spoke kindly, but she interrupted him.