“Do you remember that you were hurt?” she asked. “That you were thrown from your horse and hurt?”
I nodded.
“My pony?” I asked. “Is she well?”
“Oh, yes, she’s all right. She wasn’t hurt. But you were, and my husband—it was his machine that frightened your pony—picked you up and brought you here.”
“Thank you,” I said. Then I began to wish she would go away and leave me alone. I wanted to go back into that queer, gray, silent place of mine again, where sort of shadowy things went by in a long procession, without one of them stopping to bother me with questions. I did think I would enjoy looking at the lady and see what she was like, but I was too lazy and so I decided I would do that another time. Only I could see that she was tall, that her hair was golden, and that she was very thin. That seemed enough for the present; so I closed my eyes.
Then presently I felt someone putting something between my lips. It was soup. And that made me laugh. I thought about the house where I had helped myself to the soup. I had liked it better than this—it had had more flavor.
“What are you laughing about?” asked the lady.
I felt terribly silly. I remembered something from “Alice.”
“Soup of the evening, beautiful soup,” I said. Then I laughed some more. I couldn’t quit. Suddenly I heard a voice roaring:
“Stop that!”