Strange as it seemed even to herself, she scarcely comprehended the intimate connection between the two series of events, nor the bearing of the one upon the other.

Israel Kafka sank into such insignificance that she had began to pity his condition, and it was hard to remember that the Wanderer was the man whom Beatrice had loved, and of whom she had spoken so long and so passionately.

She found, too, an unreasoned joy in being once more by his side, no matter under what conditions.

In that happiness, one-sided and unshared, she forgot everything else.

Beatrice had been a dream, a vision, an unreal shadow.
Kafka was nothing to her, and yet everything, as she suddenly saw, since he constituted a bond between her and the man she loved, which would at least outlast the night.