To say to
ourselves, or to a friend, "Just fancy, we might have been in that
railway accident," or, in reading of a shipwreck "What a mercy we did
not embark after all, is it not?" is not half as enthralling as to be
wondering if, at eleven o'clock that night, when the terrific storm in
which twenty-six people will be killed by lightning in various parts
of England, we shall be among the fatal number. One is not much moved
to find oneself alive when a danger is passed, but one does get
terribly excited in contemplating the risk we are bound to run of
being killed. Within a week, the circulation of _To-morrow_ had gone
up from fifty thousand to ten million, and Hamar, inflated with
success, said to himself, "Now I will go and have another look at John
Martin."
When he arrived, Gladys was in the garden. His stealthy approach had
given her no chance to escape.
"What is your business?" she asked, glancing nervously in the
direction of the house, and dreading lest her father should see Hamar
from his window.
"I've come to see your father," Hamar said, his eyes resting
admiringly on her face and then running leisurely over her figure.
"How is the old gentleman?"
"He is not well enough to see visitors," Gladys said, with absolute
hauteur. "Perhaps you will state your business to me."
"Well! I don't mind if I do!" Hamar replied. "Let us sit down. It's
more comfortable than standing." And he dropped into a seat as he
spoke.
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