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.’