' He paused and looked down
questioningly upon them. 'When we sleep,' he repeated impressively,
struggling with his own thought. 'You, Mother, while you knit and sew,
slip down into that enormous under-sea and get a glimpse of the
coloured pictures that pass eternally behind the veil. I do the same
when I watch the twilight from my window in reverie. Sunshine
obliterates them, but they go just the same. _You_ call it day-
dreaming. Our waking hours are the clothes we dress the spirit in
after its nightly journeys and activities. Imagination does not create
so much as remember. Then, by transforming, it reveals.'
Mother sat staring blankly before her, utterly lost, while her husband
flung these lumps of the raw material of his story at her--of its
atmosphere, rather. Even Rogers felt puzzled, and hardly followed what
he heard. The intricacies of an artistic mind were indeed bewildering.
How in the world would these wild fragments weave together into any
intelligible pattern?
'You mean that we travel when we sleep,' he ventured, remembering a
phrase that Minks had somewhere used, 'and that our real life is out
of the body?' His cousin was taking his thought---or was it originally
Minks's?--wholesale.
Mother looked up gratefully. 'I often dream I'm flying,' she put in
solemnly.
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