I met her. She sat down at the piano, and stroked it as if it were a lap-dog. She was quite tender in her movements, and she sang:
Once in the deeeeer dead dyes beyond recall.
Shortly afterwards she said that she wanted to live a useful life. That sort of thing stamps a woman.
I suppose I must have been going to sleep when I thought that last sentence. For I suddenly found myself in the centre of Epping Forest, and before me was a college dean in full academicals. He was a leathery old dean to look at, and yet he had some nervousness of manner. Of course he was not a real dean, but only a dream dean. The real deans—I cannot say it too emphatically—are not leathery, and are not nervous.
When he saw me, he began to rub his hands gently and to smile, until I thought my heart would break.
“This is a little unusual,” he said; “a little irregular, is it not? Have you permission, may I ask, from the University authorities, to drive a Canadian canoe tandem through Epping Forest?”
“No, sir,” I said politely; “but I was not aware that permission was required.”
“Epps’s Forest,” he retorted inanely, “contains absolutely no fatty matter. Applicants are therefore assured, if they cannot borrow here, it would be futile to apply elsewhere. Personal visit invited.”
“But, sir,” I urged, “this is a personal——”