"I believe there is. There are cases given in most books on mental trouble."
"Mental trouble! Yes. I daresay there are. It's the right place for them. But what I mean——" He looked at his bony knuckles. "Is that sort of thing always dreaming? Is it dreaming? Or is it something else? Mightn't it be something else?"
I should have snubbed his persistent conversation but for the drawn anxiety of his face. I remember now the look of his faded eyes and the lids red stained—perhaps you know that look.
"I'm not just arguing about a matter of opinion," he said. "The thing's killing me."
"Dreams?"
"If you call them dreams. Night after night. Vivid!—so vivid ... this—" (he indicated the landscape that went streaming by the window) "seems unreal in comparison! I can scarcely remember who I am, what business I am on ..."
He paused. "Even now—"
"The dream is always the same—do you mean?" I asked.
"It's over."
"You mean?"