Загублений світ
He is a Perfectly Impossible Person
ThiswastheletterthatIreadaloudtoTarpHenry,whohadcomedownearlytoheartheresultofmyventure.Hisonlyremarkwas,"There’ssomenewstuff,cuticuraorsomething,whichisbetterthanarnica."Somepeoplehavesuchextraordinarynotionsofhumor.
Itwasnearlyhalf-pasttenbeforeIhadreceivedmymessage,butataxicabtookmeroundingoodtimeformyappointment.Itwasanimposingporticoedhouseatwhichwestopped,andtheheavily-curtainedwindowsgaveeveryindicationofwealthuponthepartofthisformidableProfessor.Thedoorwasopenedbyanodd,swarthy,dried-uppersonofuncertainage,withadarkpilotjacketandbrownleathergaiters.Ifoundafterwardsthathewasthechauffeur,whofilledthegapsleftbyasuccessionoffugitivebutlers.Helookedmeupanddownwithasearchinglightblueeye.
"Expected?"heasked.
"Anappointment."
"Gotyourletter?"
Iproducedtheenvelope.
"Right!"Heseemedtobeapersonoffewwords.FollowinghimdownthepassageIwassuddenlyinterruptedbyasmallwoman,whosteppedoutfromwhatprovedtobethedining-roomdoor.Shewasabright,vivacious,dark-eyedlady,moreFrenchthanEnglishinhertype.
"Onemoment,"shesaid."Youcanwait,Austin.Stepinhere,sir.MayIaskifyouhavemetmyhusbandbefore?"
"No,madam,Ihavenothadthehonor."
