d entered Paracosma! A sense of
futility overwhelmed him as for a moment he gazed at an unbelievable
apparition--a dark window hung in midair before him through which glowed
rows of electric lights. Ludwig's window!

It vanished. But the trees writhed and the sky darkened, and he swayed
dizzily in turmoil. He realized suddenly that he was no longer standing,
but sitting in the midst of the crazy glade, and his hands clutched
something smooth and hard--the arms of that miserable hotel chair. Then
at last he saw her, close before him--Galatea, with sorrow-stricken
features, her tear-filled eyes on his. He made a terrific effort to
rise, stood erect, and fell sprawling in a blaze of coruscating lights.

He struggled to his knees; walls--Ludwig's room--encompassed him; he
must have slipped from the chair. The magic spectacles lay before him,
one lens splintered and spilling a fluid no longer water-clear, but
white as milk.

"God!" he muttered. He felt shaken, sick, exhausted, with a bitter sense
of bereavement, and his head ached fiercely. The room was drab,
disgusting; he wanted to get out of it. He glanced automatically at his
watch: four o'clock--he must have sat here nearly five hours. For the
first time he noticed Ludwig's absence; he was glad of it and walked
dully out of the door to an automatic elevator. There was no response
to his ring; someone was using the thing. He walked three flights to the
street and back to his own room.

In love with a vision! Worse--in love with a girl who had never lived,
in a fantastic Utopia that was literally nowhere! He threw himself on
his bed with a groan that was half a sob.

He saw finally the implication of the name Galatea. Galatea--Pygmalion's
statue, given life by Venus in the ancient Grecian myth. But _his_
Galatea, warm and lovely and vital, must remain forever without the gift
of life, since he was neither Pygmalion nor God.

* * * * *

He woke late in the morning, staring uncomprehendingly about for the
fountain and pool of Paracosma. Slow comprehension dawned; how
much--_how much_--of last night's experience had been real? How much was
the product of alcohol? Or had old Ludwig been right, and was there no
difference between reality and dream?

He changed his rumpled attire and wandered despondently to the street.
He found Ludwig's hotel at last; inquiry revealed that the diminutive
professor had checked out, leaving no forwarding a