and here again to-night, there is no such restriction; and lovely as you are, I know that you are just a daughter of sub-consciousness or of memory or of jumpy nerves or, perhaps, of an improperly digested entrée."
"No, I am real, Horvendile—but it is I who am dreaming you."
"I had not thought to be a part of any woman's dream nowadays. . . . Why do you call me Horvendile?"
She who bore the face of Ettarre pondered momentarily; and his heart moved with glad adoration.
"Now, by the beard of the prophet! I do not know," the girl said, at last.
"The name means nothing to you?"
"I never heard it before. But it seemed natural, somehow—just as it did when you spoke of Ole-Luk-Oie and Beatricê Cenci."
"But Ole-Luk-Oie is the lord and master of all dreams, of course. And that furtive long-dead Roman girl has often troubled my dreams. When I was a boy, you conceive, there was in my room at the first boarding-house in which I can
