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SYMPTOMATIC
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.
He heard the rustle of her movement as she bent towards him.
She came warmly close to him. She spoke in gently confidential undertone, as one who imparts a secret that is not to be too lightly given. "Because," she said, "there are better dreams."
III
For a moment it seemed to Melville that he had been addressed by something quite other than the pleasant lady in the bath chair before him. "But how—?" he began and stopped. He remained si-
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