“Still dreaming, Diana?” he said, as gently as he could. “Will you not come with me now?”
She turned her eyes upon him. There was no sign of brain trouble in those clear orbs of vision—they were calm mirrors of sweet expression.
“Oh, it is you!” she said in more natural tones. “I really thought I had gone away from you altogether! It was a delightful experience!”
He was a trifle vexed. He hardly cared to hear that going away from him altogether was “a delightful experience.” She was rapidly recovering from her trance-like condition, and swept back her hair from her brows with a relieved, yet puzzled gesture.
“So it’s all over!” she said. “I’m here just the same as ever! I was sure I had gone away!”
“Where?” he asked.
“Oh, ever so far!” she answered. “I was carried off by people I couldn’t see—but they were kind and careful, and it was quite easy going. And then I came to a garden—oh!—such an exquisite place, full of the loveliest flowers—somebody said it was mine! I wish it were!”
“You were dreaming,” he said, impatiently. “There’s nothing in dreams! The chief point to me is that you have not suffered any pain. You have nothing to complain of?”
She thought a minute, trying to recall her sensations.
“No,” she answered, truthfully, “nothing.”