Then she turned from him and pressed her aching forehead against a tall weather-worn stone that rose higher than her own height from the midst of the hillock.
Her woman's nature rebelled against the trick.

It was the truest thing in her and perhaps the best, which protested so violently against the thing she meant to do; it was the simple longing to be loved for her own sake, and of the man's own free will, to be loved by him with the love she had despised in Israel Kafka.

But would this be love at all, this artificial creation of her suggestion reacting upon his mind?
Would it last?
Would it be true, faithful, tender?
Above all, would it be real, even for a moment?
She asked herself a thousand questions in a second of time.
Then the ready excuse flashed upon her--the pretext which the heart will always find when it must have its way.

Was it not possible, after all, that he was beginning to love her even now?
Might not that outburst of friendship which had surprised her and wounded her so deeply, be the herald of a stronger passion?
She looked up quickly and met his vacant stare.
"Do you love me ?" she asked, almost before she knew what she was going to say.
"No." The answer came in the far-off voice that told of his unconsciousness, a mere toneless monosyllable breathed upon the murky air.

But it stabbed her like the thrust of a jagged knife.