"Allen, Grant - Miss Cayley's Adventures 03 - The Adenture of the Inquisitive American" - читать интересную книгу автора (Allen Grant)

Something about his keen, unlovely face impressed me with
a sense of his underlying honesty. 'Very well,' I answered,
'I'll come, if you follow me no further.' I reflected that
Fraunheim was a populous village, and that only beyond it
did the mountain road over the Taunus begin to grow lonely.
If he wished to cut my throat, I was well within reach of
the resources of civilisation.

When I got home to the Abode of Blighted Fraus that
evening I debated seriously with myself whether or not I
should accept Mr. Cyrus W. Hitchcock's mysterious
invitation. Prudence said no, curiosity said yes; I put the
question to a meeting of one; and, since I am a daughter of
Eve, curiosity had it. Carried unanimously. I think I
might have hesitated, indeed, had it not been for the
Blighted Fraus. Their talk was of dinner and of the
digestive process; they were critics of digestion. They
each of them sat so complacently through the evening--solid
and stolid, stodgy and podgy, stuffed comatose images,
knitting white woollen shawls, to throw over their capacious
shoulders at table d'hote--and they purred with such content
in their middle-aged rotundity that I made up my mind I must
take warning betimes, and avoid their temptations to adipose
deposit. I prefer to grow upwards; the Frau grows sideways.
Better get my throat cut by an American desperado, in my
pursuit of romance, than settle down on a rock like a placid
fat oyster. I am not by nature sessile.

Adventures are to the adventurous. They abound on every
side; but only the chosen few have the courage to embrace
them. And they will not come to you: you must go out to
seek them. Then they meet you half-way, and rush into your
arms, for they know their true lovers. There were eight
Blighted Fraus at the Home for Lost Ideals, and I could tell
by simple inspection that they had not had an average of
half an adventure per lifetime between them. They sat and
knitted still, like Awful Examples.

If I had declined to meet Mr. Hitchcock at Fraunheim, I
know not what changes it might have induced in my life. I
might now be knitting. But I went boldly forth, on a voyage
of exploration, prepared to accept aught that fate held in
store for me.

As Mr. Hitchcock had assured me there was money in his
offer, I felt justified in speculating. I expended another
three marks on the hire of a bicycle, though I ran the risk
thereby of going perhaps without Monday's dinner. That
showed my vocation. The Blighted Fraus, I felt sure, would