“And I was dreaming?” she said. “Yes, I dare say my confusion of thought without a single idea may be called by courtesy a dream.”
“And now have you awakened?”
“Dreams must break and dissolve some time, I suppose, Mr. Markham.”
“They must, they must,” he said. “I wonder when will my awaking come.”
“Have you a dream?” she asked, with a laugh.
“I am living one,” he answered.
“Living one?”
“Living one. My life has become a dream to me. How am I beside you? How is it possible that I could be beside you? Either of two things must be a dream—either my past life is a dream, or I am living one in this life.”
“Is there so vast a difference between them?” she asked, looking at him. His eyes were turned away from her.
“Vast? Vast?” he repeated musingly. Then he rose to his feet and looked out oceanwards. “I don't know what is vast,” he said. Then he looked down to her. “Miss Gerald, I don't believe that my recollection of my past is in the least correct. My memory is a falsehood utterly. For it is quite impossible that this body of mine—this soul of mine—could have passed through such a change as I must have passed through if my memory has got anything of truth in it. My God! my God! The recollections that come to me are, I know, impossible.”