nne?"

Neale did not need the sound of Marise's voice to know how she hated
this. She said, rather shortly for her, as though she didn't want to say
a word about it, and yet couldn't leave it uncorrected, "Not exactly. I
don't dream I'm the leaf on the current. I dream I _am_ the current
myself, part of it. I'm the wind, not the bird blown by it; the wave
itself; it's too hard to explain."

"Do you still have those dreams once in a while, Marisette, and do you
still love them as much?"

"Oh yes, sometimes."

"And have you ever had the same sensation in your waking moments? I
remember so well you used to say that was what you longed for, some
experience in real life that would make you have that glorious sense of
irresistible forward movement. We used to think," said Eugenia, "that
perhaps falling in love would give it to you."

"No," said Marise. "I've never felt it, out of my dreams."

Neale was sorry he had elected to stay in the study. If he were out
there now, he could change the conversation, come to her rescue.
Couldn't Eugenia see that she was bothering Marise!

"What do you suppose Freud would make out of such dreams?" asked
Eugenia, evidently of Marsh.

"Why, it sounds simple enough to me," said Marsh, and Neale was obliged
to hand it to him that the very sound of his voice had a living, real,
genuine accent that was a relief after Eugenia. He didn't talk
half-chewed and wholly undigested nonsense, the way Eugenia did. Neale
had heard enough of his ideas to know that he didn't agree with a word
the man said, but at least it was a vital and intelligent personality
talking.

"Why, it sounds simple enough to me. Americans have fadded the thing
into imbecility, so that the very phrase has become such a bromide one
hates to pronounce it. But of course the commonplace that all dreams are
expressions of suppressed desires is true. And it's very apparent that
Mrs. Crittenden's desire is a very fine one for freedom and power and
momentum. She's evidently not a back-water personality. Though one would
hardly need psycho-analysis to guess that!" He changed the subject as
masterfully as Neale could have done. "See here, Mrs. Crittenden, that
Tschaikowsky whetted my appetite for more. Don't you feel like playing
again?"

The idea came over Neale, and in spite of his uneasy irritation, it
tickled his fancy, that possibly Marsh found Eugenia just as deadly as
he did.

Marise jumped at the chance to turn the tal