but for the drawn anxiety of his face. I remember now the look of his faded eyes and the lids red stained—perhaps you know that look.
"I'm not just arguing about a matter of opinion," he said. "The thing's killing me."
"Dreams?"
"If you call them dreams. Night after night. Vivid!—so vivid ... this——" (he indicated the landscape that went streaming by the window) "seems unreal in comparison! I can scarcely remember who I am, what business I am on ..."
He paused. "Even now——"
"The dream is always the same—do you mean?" I asked.
"It's over."
"You mean?"
"I died."
"Died?"
"Smashed and killed, and now so much of me as that dream was is dead. Dead for ever. I dreamt I was another man, you know, living in a different part of the world and in a different time. I dreamt that night after night. Night after night I woke into that other life. Fresh scenes and fresh happenings—until I came upon the last——"
"When you died?"
"When I died."
"And since then——"
"No," he said. "Thank God! that was the end of the dream...."
It was clear I was in for this dream. And, after all, I had an hour before me, the light was fading fast, and Fortnum-Roscoe has a dreary way with him. "Living
