he curtain
to fall into its former position, laid his head on the pillow again.

'I'm dreaming,' thought Richard, 'that's clear. When I went to bed, my
hands were not made of egg-shells; and now I can almost see through
'em. If this is not a dream, I have woke up, by mistake, in an Arabian
Night, instead of a London one. But I have no doubt I'm asleep. Not
the least.'

Here the small servant had another cough.

'Very remarkable!' thought Mr Swiveller. 'I never dreamt such a real
cough as that before. I don't know, indeed, that I ever dreamt either
a cough or a sneeze. Perhaps it's part of the philosophy of dreams
that one never does. There's another--and another--I say!--I'm
dreaming rather fast!'

For the purpose of testing his real condition, Mr Swiveller, after some
reflection, pinched himself in the arm.

'Queerer still!' he thought. 'I came to bed rather plump than
otherwise, and now there's nothing to lay hold of. I'll take another
survey.'

The result of this additional inspection was, to convince Mr Swiveller
that the objects by which he was surrounded were real, and that he saw
them, beyond all question, with his waking eyes.

'It's an Arabian Night; that's what it is,' said Richard. 'I'm in
Damascus or Grand Cairo. The Marchioness is a Genie, and having had a
wager with another Genie about who is the handsomest young man alive,
and the worthiest to be the husband of the Princess of China, has
brought me away, room and all, to compare us together. Perhaps,' said
Mr Swiveller, turning languidly round on his pillow, and looking on
that side of his bed which was next the wall, 'the Princess may be
still--No, she's gone.'

Not feeling quite satisfied with this explanation, as, even taking it
to be the correct one, it still involved a little mystery and doubt, Mr
Swiveller raised the curtain again, determined to take the first
favourable opportunity of addressing his companion. An occasion
presented itself. The Marchioness dealt, turned up a knave, and
omitted to take the usual advantage; upon which Mr Swiveller called out
as loud as he could--'Two for his heels!'

The Marchioness jumped up quickly and clapped her hands. 'Arabian
Night, certainly,' thought Mr Swiveller; 'they always clap their hands
instead of ringing the bell. Now for the two thousand black slaves,
with jars of jewels on their heads!'

It appeared, however, that she had only clapped her hands for joy; for
directly aft