‘I beg your pardon?’ said I.
‘That book,’ he repeated, pointing a lean finger, ‘is about dreams.’
‘Obviously,’ I answered, for it was Fortnum-Roscoe’s Dream States, and the title was on the cover.
He hung silent for a space as if he sought words. ‘Yes,’ he said, at last, ‘but they tell you nothing.’
I did not catch his meaning for a second.
‘They don’t know,’ he added.
I looked a little more attentively at his face.
‘There are dreams,’ he said, ‘and dreams.’
That sort of proposition I never dispute.
‘I suppose——’ he hesitated. ‘Do you ever dream? I mean vividly.’