Free Lost Horizon by James Hilton Page A

having reached at last some place that was an end, a finality.
    He never exactly remembered how he and the others arrived at the lamasery, or with what formalities they were received, unroped, and ushered into the precincts. That thin air had a dream-like texture, matching the porcelain-blue of the sky; with every breath and every glance he took in a deep anesthetizing tranquility that made him impervious alike to Mallinson’s uneasiness, Barnard’s witticisms, and Miss Brinklow’s portrayal of a lady well prepared for the worst. He vaguely recollected surprise at finding the interior spacious, well warmed, and quite clean; but there was no time to do more than notice these qualities, for the Chinese had left his hooded chair and was already leading the way through various antechambers. He was quite affable now. “I must apologize,” he said, “for leaving you to yourselves on the way, but the truth is, journeys of that kind don’t suit me, and I have to take care of myself. I trust you were not too fatigued?”
    “We managed,” replied Conway with a wry smile.
    “Excellent. And now, if you will come with me, I will show you to your apartments. No doubt you would like baths. Our accommodation is simple, but I hope adequate.”
    At this point Barnard, who was still affected by shortness of breath, gave vent to an asthmatic chuckle. “Well,” he gasped, “I can’t say I like your climate yet—the air seems to stick on my chest a bit—but you’ve certainly got a darned fine view out of your front windows. Do we all have to line up for the bathroom, or is this an American hotel?”
    “I think you will find everything quite satisfactory, Mr. Barnard.”
    Miss Brinklow nodded primly. “I should hope so, indeed.”
    “And afterwards,” continued the Chinese, “I should be greatly honored if you will all join me at dinner.”
    Conway replied courteously. Only Mallinson had given no sign of his attitude in the face of these unlooked-for amenities. Like Barnard, he had been suffering from the altitude, but now, with an effort, he found breath to exclaim: “And afterwards, also, if you don’t mind, we’ll make our plans for getting away. The sooner the better, so far as I’m concerned.”

FOUR
    “S O YOU SEE,” Chang was saying, “we are less barbarian than you expected .…”
    Conway, later that evening, was not disposed to deny it. He was enjoying that pleasant mingling of physical ease and mental alertness which seemed to him, of all sensations, the most truly civilized. So far, the appointments of Shangri-La had been all that he could have wished, certainly more than he could ever have expected. That a Tibetan monastery should possess a system of central heating was not, perhaps, so very remarkable in an age that supplied even Lhasa with telephones; but that it should combine the mechanics of Western hygiene with so much that was Eastern and traditional, struck him as exceedingly singular. The bath, for instance, in which he had recently luxuriated, had been of a delicate green porcelain, a product, according to inscription, of Akron, Ohio. Yet the native attendant had valeted him in Chinese fashion, cleansing his ears and nostrils, and passing a thin, silk swab under his lower eyelids. He had wondered at the time if and how his three companions were receiving similar attentions.
    Conway had lived for nearly a decade in China, not wholly in the bigger cities; and he counted it, all things considered, the happiest part of his life. He liked the Chinese, and felt at home with Chinese ways. In particular he liked Chinese cooking, with its subtle undertones of taste; and his first meal at Shangri-La had therefore conveyed a welcome familiarity. He suspected, too, that it might have contained some herb or drug to relieve respiration, for he not only felt a difference himself, but could observe a greater ease among his fellow guests. Chang, he noticed, ate nothing but a small portion of green salad, and took