The smile faded from her face, and for a moment a look of hardness lingered there, which gave way to an expression of pain and regret.

As though collecting her thoughts she closed her eyes, as she tried to draw back her hand; then as he held it still, she leaned back and spoke to him.
"You have not understood me," she said, as quietly as she could.
The strong fingers were not lifted from hers, but the white face, now bloodless and transparent, was raised to hers, and a look of such fear as she had never dreamed of was in the wide black eyes.
"Not--understood ?" he repeated in startled, broken tones.
Unorna sighed, and turned away, for the sight hurt her and accused her.
"No, you have not understood.

Is it my fault?
Israel Kafka, that hand is not yours to hold." "Not mine?
Unorna!" Yet he could not quite believe what she said.
"I am in earnest," she answered, not without a lingering tenderness in the intonation.

"Do you think I am jesting with you, or with myself ?" Neither of the two stirred during the silence which followed.

Unorna sat quite still, staring fixedly into the green shadows of the foliage, as though not daring to meet the gaze she felt upon her.