Then he sat down and waited.
It was clear that Kalmon had learned of Corbario's departure from
Aurora, perhaps through her mother. He had probably dined with them, for
he was intimate at the house, and Aurora had spoken of Marcello's visit.
There was no reason why she should not have done so, and yet Marcello
wished that she had kept it to herself a little longer. It had meant so
much to him, and it suddenly seemed as if it had meant nothing at all to
her. She had perhaps repeated to her mother everything that had been
said, or almost everything, for she was very fond of her.
Marcello told himself roughly that since he had no right to love her,
and was determined not to, he had no claim upon such little delicacies
of discretion and silence on her part; and his problem stuck up its head
again out of the deep water in which it lived, and glared at him, and
shot out all sorts of questions like the wriggling tentacles of an
octopus, inviting him to wrestle with them, if only to see how useless
all wrestling must be. He rose again impatiently, took a cigar from a
big mahogany box on the table, lit it and smoked savagely, walking up
and down.
It was half finished when the door opened and Kalmon was ushered in. He
held out his hand as he came forward, with the air of a man who has no
time to lose.
"I am glad to see you," Marcello said.
"And I am exceedingly glad that you were at home when I called you up,"
Kalmon answered.
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