When I went to bed, my hands were not made of egg-
shells; and now I can almost see through 'em. If this is
not a dream, I have woke up by mistake in an Arabian
Night, instead of a London one. But I have no doubt I'm
asleep. Not the least."

Here the small servant had another cough.

"Very remarkable!" thought Mr. Swiveller. "I never
dreamt such a real cough as that before. I don't know,
indeed, that I ever dreamt either a cough or a sneeze.
Perhaps it's part of the philosophy of dreams that one never
does. There's another--and another--I say,--I'm dream-
ing rather fast!"

For the purpose of testing his real condition, Mr.
Swiveller, after some reflection, pinched himself in the
arm.

"Queerer still!" he thought. "I came to bed rather
plump than otherwise, and now there's nothing to lay
hold of. I'll take another survey."

The result of this further inspection was, to convince
Mr. Swiveller that the objects by which he was surrounded
were real, and that he saw them, beyond all question, with
his waking eyes.

"It's an Arabian Night, that's what it is," said Richard.
"I'm in Damascus or Grand Cairo. The Marchioness is
a Genie, and having had a wager with another Genie about
who is the handsomest young man alive, and the worthiest
to be the husband of the Princess of China, has brought me
away, room and all, to compare us together. Perhaps,"
said Mr. Swiveller, turning languidly round upon his pillow,
and looking on that side of his bed which was next the wall,
"the Princess may be still--No, she's gone."

Not feeling quite satisfied with this explanation, as, even
taking it to be the correct one, it still involved a little
mystery and doubt, Mr. Swiveller raised the curtain again,
determined to take the first favourable opportunity of ad-
dressing his companion. An occasion soon presented itself.
The Marchioness dealt, turned up a knave, and omitted
to take the usual advantage; upon which Mr. Swiveller
called out as loud as he could--"Two for his heels!"

The Marchioness jumped up quickly, and clapped her
hands. "Arabian Night, certainly," thought Mr. Swivel-
ler; "they always clap their hands instead of ringing the
bell. Now for the two thousand black slaves, with jars of
jewels on their heads!"

-462-