Загублений світ
A Procession! A Procession!
"Good-night!"saidI,andvanished,likealldisconsolateandbroken-heartedheroes,intothedarkness,withgriefandrageandlaughterallsimmeringwithinmelikeaboilingpot.
Onemorelittlescene,andIhavedone.LastnightweallsuppedatLordJohnRoxton’srooms,andsittingtogetherafterwardswesmokedingoodcomradeshipandtalkedouradventuresover.Itwasstrangeunderthesealteredsurroundingstoseetheold,well-knownfacesandfigures.TherewasChallenger,withhissmileofcondescension,hisdroopingeyelids,hisintoleranteyes,hisaggressivebeard,hishugechest,swellingandpuffingashelaiddownthelawtoSummerlee.AndSummerlee,too,therehewaswithhisshortbriarbetweenhisthinmoustacheandhisgraygoat’s-beard,hiswornfaceprotrudedineagerdebateashequeriedallChallenger’spropositions.Finally,therewasourhost,withhisrugged,eagleface,andhiscold,blue,glaciereyeswithalwaysashimmerofdevilmentandofhumordowninthedepthsofthem.SuchisthelastpictureofthemthatIhavecarriedaway.
Itwasaftersupper,inhisownsanctum—theroomofthepinkradianceandtheinnumerabletrophies—thatLordJohnRoxtonhadsomethingtosaytous.Fromacupboardhehadbroughtanoldcigar-box,andthishelaidbeforehimonthetable.
"There’sonething,"saidhe,"thatmaybeIshouldhavespokenaboutbeforethis,butIwantedtoknowalittlemoreclearlywhereIwas.Nousetoraisehopesandletthemdownagain.
