“And you, also!” Florence exclaimed, all but dropping her pie. She began sliding from the stool.
“No, no! Don’t go!” he cried in sudden consternation. “What in the world have I said?”
“Dreams,” she replied, “you pretend to interpret dreams. And there’s nothing to it. You—you don’t look like a cheat.”
“Indeed I’m not!” he protested indignantly. “And there truly is something in dreams—a whole lot, only not in the way people used to think. Slide back up on that stool and I’ll explain.
“Waiter,” he ordered, “give Miss—what was that name?”
“Florence for short,” the girl smiled.
“Give Florence another piece of pie,” he finished.
“You see—” he launched into his subject at once. “I don’t ask you what your dreams are, then tell you ‘You have dreamed of an eagle; that is a good sign; you will advance,’ or ‘You dreamed of being married; that is bad; you will become seriously ill, or shall have bad news from afar.’ No, I don’t say that. All that is nonsense!
“What I do say is that dreams tell something of your inner life. If they are carefully studied, they may help you to a better understanding of yourself.”
“Interesting, if true.” Florence took a generous bit from her second small pie. “But it’s all too deep for me.”