d suddenly
I woke up--fresh and vivid--not a bit dreamlike--because the girl
had stopped fanning me."

"The girl?"

"Yes, the girl. You must not interrupt or you will put me
out."

He stopped abruptly. "You won't think I'm mad?" he said.

"No," I answered. "You've been dreaming. Tell me your
dream."

"I woke up, I say, because the girl had stopped fanning me.
I was not surprised to find myself there or anything of that sort,
you understand. I did not feel I had fallen into it suddenly. I
simply took it up at that point. Whatever memory I had of this
life, this nineteenth-century life, faded as I woke, vanished like
a dream. I knew all about myself, knew that my name was no longer
Cooper but Hedon, and all about my position in the world. I've
forgotten a lot since I woke--there's a want of connection--but it
was all quite clear and matter of fact then."

He hesitated again, gripping the window strap, putting his
face forward and looking up to me appealingly.

"This seems bosh to you?"

"No, no!" I cried. "Go on. Tell me what this loggia was
like!"

"It was not really a loggia--I don't know what to call it. It
faced south. It was small. It was all in shadow except the
semicircle above the balcony that showed the sky and sea and the
corner where the girl stood. I was on a couch--it was a metal
couch with light striped cushions--and the girl was leaning over
the balcony with her back to me. The light of the sunrise fell on
her ear and cheek. Her pretty white neck and the little curls
that nestled there, and her white shoulder were in the sun, and
all the grace of her body was in the cool blue shadow. She was
dressed--how can I describe it? It was easy and flowing. And
altogether there she stood, so that it came to me how beautiful
and desirable she was, as though I had never seen her before.
And when at last I sighed and raised myself upon my arm she
turned her face to me--"

He stopped.

"I have lived three-and-fifty years in this world. I have had
mother, sisters, friends, wife and daughters--all their faces, the
play of their faces, I know. But the face of this girl--it is much
more real to me. I can bring it back into memory so that I see it
again--I could draw it or paint it. And after all--"

He stopped--but I said nothing.

"The face of a dream--the face of a dream. She was beautiful.
Not that beauty which is terrible, cold, and worshipful, like the
beauty of a saint; no