“And so you were convinced that no one was concealed in your chamber, or could have entered it during the night.”
“Yes, I am convinced of that.”
“David Lindsay, what do you think of this yourself?”
“I do not know what to think. It was less like a dream than like a real visitation.”
“Was the mysterious visitant like your mother?”
“I repeat that I did not see the visitant at all. I felt her hand upon my forehead. I heard her voice in my ear. That was all. But I must say that though she called herself my mother, her hand felt much smaller, slenderer, softer and lighter than my poor mother’s hand, which was large and hard and roughened by coarse work; her voice also was fine and flute-like, whereas my dear mother’s voice was deep and strong. No! though I did not see my mysterious visitant, I perceived that she must have been a very opposite person to my own poor mother.”
“Yet she said she was your mother, and her mother had somewhat to say to you.”
“Yes, which is an inconsistency with fact; for my poor mother was an orphan from her youth.”
“And she called you David Gryphyn.”
“Yes, another inconsistency, since my name is David Lindsay—these two incoherencies favor the theory that my possible supernatural experience was nothing more than a very distinct dream; for you know dreams are notoriously incoherent.”