"Morhange," I begged, "tell me if we are still dreaming."
We were in a round room, perhaps fifty feet in diameter, and of about
the same height, lighted by a great window opening on a sky of intense
blue.
Swallows flew back and forth, outside, giving quick, joyous cries.
The floor, the incurving walls and the ceiling were of a kind of
veined marble like porphyry, panelled with a strange metal, paler than
gold, darker than silver, clouded just then by the early morning mist
that came in through the window in great puffs.
I staggered toward this window, drawn by the freshness of the breeze
and the sunlight which was chasing away my dreams, and I leaned my
elbows on the balustrade.