They would constitute a tangible
proof of the journey's reality in case the suggestion proved less
thoroughly successful than was hoped, and Keyork prided himself upon
this supreme touch.
"And now," he said, taking Kafka's hand, "I would advise you to rest as
long as you can. I suppose that it must have been a fatiguing trip for
you, though I myself am as fresh as a May morning. There is nothing
wrong with you, but you are tired. Repose, my dear boy, repose, and
plenty of it. That infernal Sicilian doctor! I shall never forgive him
for bleeding you as he did. There is nothing so weakening. Good-bye--I
shall hardly see you again to-day, I fancy."
"I cannot tell," answered the young man absently. "But let me thank
you," he added, with a sudden consciousness of obligation, "for your
pleasant company, and for making me go with you. I daresay it has done
me good, though I feel unaccountably tired--I feel almost old."
His tired eyes and haggard face showed that this at least was no
illusion. The fancied journey had added ten years to his age in thirty
days, and those who knew him best would have found it hard to recognise
the brilliantly vital personality of Israel Kafka in the pale and
exhausted youth who painfully climbed the stairs with unsteady steps,
panting for breath and clutching at the hand-rail for support.
"He will not die this time," remarked Keyork Arabian to himself, as he
sent the carriage away and began to walk towards his own home.
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