13. A DREAM OF ARMAGEDDON
The man with the white face entered the carriage at Rugby. He moved
slowly in spite of the urgency of his porter, and even while he was
still on the platform I noted how ill he seemed. He dropped into
the corner over against me with a sigh, made an incomplete attempt
to arrange his travelling shawl, and became motionless, with his
eyes staring vacantly. Presently he was moved by a sense of my
observation, looked up at me, and put out a spiritless hand for
his newspaper. Then he glanced again in my direction.
I feigned to read. I feared I had unwittingly embarrassed him,
and in a moment I was surprised to find him speaking.
"I beg your pardon?" said I.
"That book," he repeated, pointing a lean finger, "is about dreams."
"Obviously," I answered, for it was Fortnum-Roscoe's Dream States,
and the title was on the cover. He hung silent for a space as if
he sought words. "Yes," he said at last, "but they tell you nothing."
I did not catch his meaning for a second.
"They don't know," he added.
I looked a little more attentively at his face.
"There are dreams," he said, "and dreams.
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