Lost trumpet

•y 8 THE LOST TRUA1PET
out to the two of us, looking up at her. The burnished
head bent towards us. Unalarmed, half-impatient,
half-amused, she said again : “Who is it ?”
Now at that I took off my hat and stepped forward
into the radiance of the corridor light. There was a
moment’s silence, and then, without cry or greeting,
her arms were around my neck.
“Anton Kyrilovitch !” And I felt my heart almost
cease from beating at sound of the sweet Russian
syllables. “Oh, Anton, I thought Cairo had lost and
mislaid you ! Wherever have you been and how did
you know I came back to-day ?”
I found I was holding her in my arms, as I had
never done, and the burnished hair was a miracle of
fine metallic weavings against my cheek, and I was
dizzy with the smell of lilac, and the reluctant gown
had yielded to me, as if happily, and with a sigh of
content, that curving beauty of breast and limb that
was Pelagueya. So, while she jerked out the questions,
we stood a moment, looking at each other mistily.
Then I had dropped my arms and Pelagueya hers.
She drew back a step. She laughed.
“Still the same Anton ! And do come in. Who’s
that with you ?”
I looked over my shoulder at the labourer.
Foolishly :
“He wants water.”
She gave a characteristic gurgle of laughter. “He
may have wine if he chooses. I’m so glad to see you.”
She called aloud : “Ibrahim !” and a native servant
came hurrying down the corridor. She motioned