He is a little odd."
Keyork tapped his ivory forehead significantly with one finger.
"Mad," suggested the Wanderer.
"Mad, if you prefer the term. He has fixed ideas. In the first place,
he imagines that he has just been travelling with me in Italy, and is
always talking of our experiences. Humour him, if you meet him. He is in
danger of being worse if contradicted."
"Am I likely to meet him?"
"Yes. He is often here. His other fixed idea is that he loves Unorna to
distraction. He has been dangerously ill during the last few weeks but
is better now, and he may appear at any moment. Humour him a little if
he wearies you with his stories. That is all I ask. Both Unorna and I
are interested in the case."
"And does not Unorna care for him at all?" inquired the other
indifferently.
"No, indeed. On the contrary, she is annoyed at his insistance, but sees
that it is a phase of insanity and hopes to cure it before long."
"I see. What is he like? I suppose he is an Israelite."
"From Moravia--yes. The wreck of a handsome boy," said Keyork
carelessly. "This insanity is an enemy of good looks. The nerves give
way--then the vitality--the complexion goes--men of five and twenty
years look old under it. But you will see for yourself before long.
Good-bye. I will go in and see what is the matter with Unorna."
They parted, the Wanderer continuing on his way along the street with
the same calm, cold, peaceful expression which had elicited Keyork's
admiration, and Keyork himself going forward to Unorna's door.
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