' And he reflected how easily one might be
persuaded that the spirit escaped in sleep and knew another order of
experience. The sense of actuality was so vivid.
He lay half dozing for a little longer, hoping to recover the
adventures. The flying train showed itself once or twice again, but
smaller, and much, much farther away. It curved off into the distance.
A deep cutting quickly swallowed it. It emerged for the last time,
tiny as a snake upon a chess-board of far-off fields. Then it dipped
into mist; the snake shot into its hole. It was gone. He sighed. It
had been so lovely. Why must it vanish so entirely? Once or twice
during the day it returned, touched him swiftly on the heart and was
gone again. But the waking impression of a dream is never the dream
itself. Sunshine destroys the sense of enormous wonder.
'I believe I've been dreaming all night long, and going through all
kinds of wild adventures.'
He dressed leisurely, still hunting subconsciously for fragments of
that happy dreamland. Its aroma still clung about him. The sunshine
poured into the room. He went out on to the balcony and looked at the
Alps through his Zeiss field-glasses. The brilliant snow upon the
Diablerets danced and sang into his blood; across the broken teeth of
the Dent du Midi trailed thin strips of early cloud.
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