Marjorie looked at the Dream, wonderingly. "Why, I never saw you so in earnest before. I didn't know that you could be."
The Dream turned a somersault on to the counterpane. "Yes," he said, the old, teasing grin returning to his face, "we do have lucid intervals and—"
"What's 'lucid intervals?'" asked Marjorie.
The Dream looked disgusted. "Look it up yourself," he said. "I'm no dictionary. Come on for our walk. How would you like to live here?"
Marjorie glanced up and down the long street. "Well, I never in my life saw so many different kinds of houses!" she exclaimed. "Aren't they funny! Why, they look almost like people. Look at that little persnickety one over there—the white, white one with the green, green blinds—doesn't it look exactly like—"
"Never mind who," said the Dream. "No personalities, please. If you want to liken them to people, pick out the beautiful ones."
Marjorie's face flushed. "You're almost too good tonight," she said, half pouting.
The two walked up the street for a little way, in silence.
