"Yes," he answered. "She made you sleep."
"Why? Do you know? If she has made me dream something, I have forgotten
it."
The Wanderer hesitated a moment.
"I cannot answer your question," he said, at length.
"Ah--she told me that you hated her," said Kafka, turning his dark eyes
to his companion. "But, yet," he added, "that is hardly a reason why you
should not tell me what happened."
"I could not tell you the truth without saying something which I have no
right to say to a stranger--which I could not easily say to a friend."
"You need not spare me--"
"It might save you."
"Then say it--though I do not know from what danger I am to be saved.
But I can guess, perhaps. You would advise me to give up the attempt to
win her."
"Precisely. I need say no more."
"On the contrary," said Kafka with sudden energy, "when a man gives such
advice as that to a stranger he is bound to give also his reasons."
The Wanderer looked at him calmly as he answered.
"One man need hardly give a reason for saving another man's life. Yours
is in danger."
"I see that you hate her, as she said you did."
"You and she are both mistaken in that. I am not in love with her and
I have ceased to be her friend. As for my interest in you, it does not
even pretend to be friendly--it is that which any man may feel for a
fellow-being, and what any man would feel who had seen what I have seen
this afternoon.
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