very clean and neat, but quite different from anything he had left there
when he went to bed! The atmosphere too filled with a cool smell of
herbs and vinegar; the floor newly sprinkled; the--the what?--the
Marchioness!

Yes; playing cribbage with herself at the table. There she sat, intent
upon her game, coughing now and then in a subdued manner, as if she
feared to disturb him, going through all the mysteries of cribbage as if
she had been in full practice from her cradle!

Mr. Swiveller contemplated these things for a short time, then laid his
head on the pillow again.

"I'm dreaming," thought Richard, "that's clear. 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 dreamed such a real
cough as that before. There's another--and another--I say!--I'm dreaming
rather fast!

"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."