There is more durability in it." The carriage stopped before the door of Kafka's dwelling.

Keyork got out with him and stood upon the pavement while the porter took the slender luggage into the house.

He smiled as he glanced at the leathern portmanteau which was supposed to have made such a long journey while it had in reality lain a whole month in a corner of Keyork's great room behind a group of specimens.

He had opened it once or twice in that time, had disturbed the contents and had thrown in a few objects from his heterogeneous collection, as reminiscences of the places visited in imagination by Kafka, and of the acquisition of which the latter was only assured in his sleeping state.

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.