"It may be that you are right, Challenger," said Summerlee in a
chastened voice. "I am willing to admit that my turn of mind is
critical rather than constructive and that I am not a ready
convert to any new theory, especially when it happens to be so
unusual and fantastic as this one. However, as I cast my mind
back over the events of the morning, and as I reconsider the
fatuous conduct of my companions, I find it easy to believe that
some poison of an exciting kind was responsible for their
symptoms."

Challenger slapped his colleague good-humouredly upon the
shoulder. "We progress," said he. "Decidedly we progress."

"And pray, sir," asked Summerlee humbly, "what is your opinion
as to the present outlook?"

"With your permission I will say a few words upon that subject."
He seated himself upon his desk, his short, stumpy legs swinging
in front of him. "We are assisting at a tremendous and awful
function. It is, in my opinion, the end of the world."

The end of the world! Our eyes turned to the great bow-window
and we looked out at the summer beauty of the country-side, the
long slopes of heather, the great country-houses, the cozy
farms, the pleasure-seekers upon the links.

The end of the world! One had often heard the words, but the
idea that they could ever have an immediate practical
significance, that it should not be at some vague date, but now,
to-day, that was a tremendous, a staggering thought. We were all