“I shall be gratified if you will bring me word of him,” she said, glancing at Kafka.
The Wanderer was silent as though he had not heard.
“Have you been in pain? Do you feel as though you had been suffering?” she asked of the younger man, in a tone of sympathy and solicitude.
“No. Why do you ask?”
Unorna smiled and looked at the Wanderer, with intention. He did not heed her. At that moment two carriages appeared and drew up at the end of the narrow alley which leads from the street to the entrance of the cemetery. All three walked forward together. Kafka went forward and opened the door of one of the conveyances for Unorna to get in. The Wanderer, still anxious for the man’s safety, would have taken his place, but Kafka turned upon him almost defiantly.
“Permit me,” he said. “I was before you here.”
The Wanderer stood civilly aside and lifted his hat. Unorna held out her hand, and he took it coldly, not being able to do otherwise.
“You will let me know, will you not?” she said. “I am anxious about him.”
He raised his eyebrows a little and dropped her hand.
“You shall be informed,” he said.