Kafka helped her to get into the carriage. She drew him by the hand so that his head was inside the door and the other man could not hear her words.
“I am anxious about you,” she said very kindly. “Make him come himself to me and tell me how you are.”
“Surely—if you have asked him—”
“He hates me,” whispered Unorna quickly. “Unless you make him come he will send no message.”
“Then let me come myself—I am perfectly well—”
“Hush—no!” she answered hurriedly. “Do as I say—it will be best for you—and for me. Good-bye.”
“Your word is my law,” said Kafka, drawing back. His eyes were bright and his thin cheek was flushed. It was long since she had spoken so kindly to him. A ray of hope entered his life.
The Wanderer saw the look and interpreted it rightly. He understood that in that brief moment Unorna had found time to do some mischief. Her carriage drove on, and left the two men free to enter the one intended for them. Kafka gave the driver the address of his lodgings. Then he sank back into the corner, exhausted and conscious of his extreme weakness. A short silence followed.
“You are in need of rest,” said the Wanderer, watching him curiously.
“Indeed, I am very tired, if not actually ill.”