ure to make. Those dreams are
spaniels crouching at your feet. At a bath not dissimilar but
financially far shallower, Monte Cristo cried: "The world is mine!" It
was very amusing of him. But though, since then, values have varied, a
bagatelle of ten millions is deep enough for any girl, sufficiently deep
at least for its depths to hold strange things.

At those things, strange indeed and yet not unfamiliar, Cassy beckoned.
In their embrace she saw herself, as Jones had pictured her, going
about, giving money away, strewing it full-handed, changing sobs into
smiles. The picture lacked novelty. Often she had dreamed it. Only
recently, on the afternoon just before the clock struck twelve, just
before the gardener lit his pipe and the mask had fallen, only then,
and, relatively, that was but yesterday, she had promenaded in it. It
was a dream she had dreamed when a child, that had haunted her girlhood,
that had abided since then. It was the dream of a dream she had dreamed
without daring to believe in its truth. Now, from the core of the web
that is spun by the spiderous fates, out it had sprung. There, before
her eyes, within her grasp was that miracle, a rainbow solidified,
vapour made tangible, a dream no longer a dream but a palette and a
palette that you could toss in the air, put in the bank, secrete or
squander, a palette with which you could paint the hours and make them
twist to jewelled harps. No more walk-up! Good-bye, kitchy! Harlem,
addio! The gentleman with the fabulous nose could whistle. Vaudeville,
indeed! She could buy the shop, buy a dozen of them, tear them down,
build them up, throw them into one and sing there, sing what she liked,
when she liked, as she liked. Yes, but for whom? God of gods, for whom?

A local newspaper bears--or bore--a sage device: La nuit porte conseil.
That night, on her white bed, in her black room, Cassy sought it. But
the counsel that night brings is not delivered while you toss about.
Night waits until you sleep. Then, to the subjective self that never
sleeps, the message is delivered. It may be fallible, often it is and,
in our scheme of things, what is there that is not? Yet in any dilemma
bad advice may be better than none. Then, without transition, the black
room changed into an avenue where faces peered and smiled. It was not
though for these that she was looking, but for her way. It must have
been very narrow. Though she looked and looked she could not find it.
Yet it