stupid and disagreeable. Just think of the things—even the little things—you mustn't do. Up there on the Leas in this hot weather all the people are sitting in stuffy ugly clothes-ever so much too much clothes, hot tight boots, you know, when they have the most lovely pink feet, some of them—we see,—and they are all with little to talk about and nothing to look at, and bound not to do all sorts of natural things and bound to do all sorts of preposterous things. Why are they bound? Why are they letting life slip by them? Just as if they wouldn't all of them presently be dead! Suppose you were to go up there in a bathing dress and a white cotton hat———"
"It wouldn't be proper!" cried Melville.
"Why not?"
"It would be outrageous!"
"But any one may see you like that on the beach!"
"That's different."
"It isn't different. You dream it's different. And in just the same way you dream all the other things are proper or improper or good or bad to do. Because you are in a dream, a fantastic, unwholesome little dream. So small, so infinitely small! I saw you the other day dreadfully worried by a spot of ink on your sleeve—almost the whole afternoon."
My cousin looked distressed. She abandoned the ink-spot.
"Your life, I tell you, is a dream—a dream, and you can't wake out of it———"
"And if so, why do you tell me?"
She made no answer for a space.
"Why do you tell me?" he insisted.
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