“What caused Satan’s fall?  Pride.  Then pride is his chief characteristic.  Am I proud, Unorna?  The question is absurd, I have nothing to be proud of—­a little old man with a gray beard, of whom nobody ever heard anything remarkable.  No one ever accused me of pride.  How could I be proud of anything?  Except of your acquaintance, my dear lady,” he added gallantly, laying his hand on his heart, and leaning towards her as he sat.

Unorna laughed at the speech, and threw back her dishevelled hair with a graceful gesture.  Keyork paused.

“You are very beautiful,” he said thoughtfully, gazing at her face and at the red gold lights that played in the tangled tresses.

“Worse and worse!” she exclaimed, still laughing.  “Are you going to repeat the comedy you played so well this afternoon, and make love to me again?”

“If you like.  But I do not need to win your affections now.”

“Why not?”

“Have I not bought your soul, with everything in it, like a furnished house?” he asked merrily.

“Then you are the devil after all?”

“Or an angel.  Why should the evil one have a monopoly in the soul-market?  But you remind me of my argument.  You would have distracted Demosthenes in the heat of a peroration, or Socrates in the midst of his defence, if you had flashed that hair of yours before their old eyes.  You have almost taken the life out of my argument.  I was going to say that my peculiarity is not less exclusive than Lucifer’s, though it takes a different turn.  I was going to confess with the utmost frankness and the most sincere truth that my only crime against Heaven is a most perfect, unswerving, devotional love for my own particular Self.  In that attachment I have never wavered yet—­but I really cannot say what may become of Keyork Arabian if he looks at you much longer.”

“He might become a human being,” suggested Unorna.

“How can you be so cruel as to suggest such a horrible possibility?” cried the gnome with a shudder, either real or extremely well feigned.

“You are betraying yourself, Keyork.  You must control your feelings better, or I shall find out the truth about you.”

He glanced keenly at her, and was silent for a while.  Unorna rose slowly to her feet, and standing beside him, began to twist her hair into a great coil upon her head.

“What made you let it down?” asked Keyork with some curiosity, as he watched her.

“I hardly know,” she answered, still busy with the braids.  “I was nervous, I suppose, as you say, and so it got loose and came down.”

“Nervous about our friend?”

She did not reply, but turned from him with a shake of the head and took up her fur mantle.

“You are not going?” said Keyork quietly, in a tone of conviction.

She started slightly, dropped the sable, and sat down again.

“No,” she said, “I am not going yet.  I do not know what made me take my cloak.”