“Oh, that settles the question.”
“It does, so far as I am concerned. Look here, Madge; don’t come to me again with the story of your dreams, hoping to find a sympathetic ear. Dreams, I say, are all——Of course, you saw that particular house and that particular staircase in some picture, and they stuck somewhere at the back of your brain. It’s a rummy thing the brain, you know—a jolly rum thing!”
“It is. I am becoming more impressed every minute with the truth of that discovery of yours.”
“Oh, if you are becoming sarcastic, I have nothing more to say. But please to remember that sarcasm is no argument. I tell you, my dear girl, you have seen a picture of that house at some period of your life—I don’t say recently, mind you—and my theory is that the brain is like a sensitized plate: it records an impression once and for all, and stores it away, and you never know exactly when it means to bring it out again before your eyes. Oh, believe me, it plays a lot of tricks upon even the most commonplace people.”
“Among whom I suppose I must count myself? Well, I daresay you are right.”
“I know that I am right. Dreams! Did you ever hear the story of the old woman who won a big prize in a lottery, the ticket being No. 26? Had she chosen that number on chance or in accordance with some system? she was asked, and she replied that she had dreamt it all out. Dreamt it all out? What did she mean by that? they inquired. ‘Well, a week ago I dreamt that I won the prize, and that the ticket I took was No. 9,’ said she. ‘The next night I dreamt exactly the same, and the ticket was No. 9. The third night the same thing happened, so, of course, I chose No. 26.’ ‘No. 26? Why not No. 9 as you dreamt it?’ the people asked. ‘Oh, you fools!’ said she; ‘didn’t I tell you that I dreamt it three times? the number was 9, and doesn’t every one know that three times 9 are 26?’ Now that’s the stuff that dreams are made of, as Shakespeare remarks, so don’t you bother about this particular vision of yours; and if you take my advice you’ll say nothing to Uncle Philip or the lot of them about it. They would only laugh at you.”
“Why on earth should I go about proclaiming my dream to all our relations?” cried the girl. “Dear Charlie, I’m not suffering just yet from softening of the brain. Besides, I can recall many instances of disaster following people who bored others with the story of their dreams. There was the notable case of Joseph and his brethren, and later in history there was the case of the Duke of Clarence. You remember how swiftly retribution followed his story of his dream? Now, of course, my dream was only a little insignificant thing compared to Joseph’s and Clarence’s, still something might happen if I bored people with it—something proportionate—the plum-pudding might come to the table in a state of squash, or the custards might be smoked. Oh no, I’ll be forewarned, and talk only of facts. I suppose a dream cannot, by even the most indulgent of people, be called a fact.”
“I’m off to the stables,” said her brother, after a little pause.
Then he went off to the stables. He was an excellent fellow and the best of brothers, although he was more at home in the stables than when engaged in a discussion on a subject involving some exercise of the imagination. There is not much room in a stable for a play of the imagination, especially where the corn accounts are kept on a system.
When he had left the breakfast-room on this bright Christmas morning his sister paused for a few moments in her morning duty of collecting a breakfast for the birds which were loitering about the Italian balustrade in front of the window, reminding her, in their own way, that they expected an exceptionally liberal repast on this Christmas morning: she paused and began to think once more upon this strange dream of hers, which she had been rehearsing to her brother.