ighly coloured and somewhat aggressive imitation of one. Most of all,
perhaps, he abhorred Sir John's bulging glassy eyeballs, of a hard white
by contrast with his coppery skin--surest sign of the cold sensualist.
But in fact he took no pains to analyse his aversion, which extended even
to the smell of Sir John's excellent but Burmese cigars. The two men
nodded when they met, and usually exchanged a remark or two on the
weather. Beyond this they rarely conversed, even upon politics, although
both were Conservatives and voters in the same electoral division.

The day of which this story tells was a Saturday in the month of May
188--, a warm and cloudless morning, which seemed to mark the real
beginning of summer after an unusually cold spring. The year, indeed,
had reached that exact point when for a week or so the young leaves are as
fragrant as flowers, and the rush of the train swept a thousand delicious
scents in at the open windows. Mr. Molesworth had donned a white
waistcoat in honour of the weather, and wore a bud of a Capucine rose in
his buttonhole. Sir John had adorned himself with an enormous glowing
Senateur Vaisse. (Why not a Paul Neyron while he was about it? wondered
Mr. Molesworth, as he surveyed the globular bloom.)

"Now in the breast a door flings wide--"

It may have been the weather that disposed Sir John to talk to-day.
After commending it, and adding a word or two in general in praise of the
West-country climate, he paused and watched Mr. Molesworth lighting his
cigar.

"You're a man of regular habits?" he observed unexpectedly, with a shade
of interrogation in his voice.

Mr. Molesworth frowned and tossed his match out of window.

"I believe in regular habits myself." Sir John, bent on affability,
laid down his newspaper on his knee. "There's one danger about them,
though: they're deadening. They save a man the bother of thinking, and
persuade him he's doing right, when all the reason is that he's done the
same thing a hundred times before. I came across that in a book once, and
it seemed to me dashed sound sense. Now here's something I'd like to ask
you--have you any theory at all about dreams?"

"Dreams?" echoed Mr. Molesworth, taken aback by the inconsequent question.

"There's a Society--isn't there?--that makes a study of 'em and collects
evidence. Man wakes up, having dreamt that friend whom he knows to be
abroad is standing by his bed; lights his candle or turns on t