Загублений світ
A Procession! A Procession!
NoletterortelegramhadcometomeatSouthampton,andIreachedthelittlevillaatStreathamaboutteno’clockthatnightinafeverofalarm.Wasshedeadoralive?Wherewereallmynightlydreamsoftheopenarms,thesmilingface,thewordsofpraiseforhermanwhohadriskedhislifetohumorherwhim?AlreadyIwasdownfromthehighpeaksandstandingflat-footeduponearth.Yetsomegoodreasonsgivenmightstillliftmetothecloudsoncemore.Irusheddownthegardenpath,hammeredatthedoor,heardthevoiceofGladyswithin,pushedpastthestaringmaid,andstrodeintothesitting-room.Shewasseatedinalowsetteeundertheshadedstandardlampbythepiano.InthreestepsIwasacrosstheroomandhadbothherhandsinmine.
"Gladys!"Icried,"Gladys!"
Shelookedupwithamazementinherface.Shewasalteredinsomesubtleway.Theexpressionofhereyes,thehardupwardstare,thesetofthelips,wasnewtome.Shedrewbackherhands.
"Whatdoyoumean?"shesaid.
"Gladys!"Icried."Whatisthematter?YouaremyGladys,areyounot—littleGladysHungerton?"
"No,"saidshe,"IamGladysPotts.Letmeintroduceyoutomyhusband."
Howabsurdlifeis!Ifoundmyselfmechanicallybowingandshakinghandswithalittleginger-hairedmanwhowascoiledupinthedeeparm-chairwhichhadoncebeensacredtomyownuse.Webobbedandgrinnedinfrontofeachother.
"Fatherletsusstayhere.Wearegettingourhouseready,"saidGladys.
"Oh,yes,"saidI.
