the biggest fool in Paris, and recalling over and over again that
gray-blue kindly glance--my only light, the Light of the World for ME!

* * * * *

My brief holiday over, I went back to London--to Pentonville--and
resumed my old occupations; but the whole tenor of my existence
was changed.

The day, the working-day (and I worked harder than ever, to Lintot's
great satisfaction), passed as in an unimportant dream of mild content
and cheerful acquiescence in everything, work or play.

There was no more quarrelling with my destiny, nor wish to escape from
myself for a moment. My whole being, as I went about on business or
recreation bent, was suffused with the memory of the Duchess of Towers
as with a warm inner glow that kept me at peace with all mankind and
myself, and thrilled by the hope, the enchanting hope, of once more
meeting her image at night in a dream, in or about my old home at Passy,
and perhaps even feeling once more that ineffable bliss of touching her
hand. Though why should she be there?

When the blessed hour came round for sleep, the real business of my life
began. I practised "dreaming true" as one practises a fine art, and
after many failures I became a professed expert--a master.

I lay straight on my back, with my feet crossed, and my hands clasped
above my head in a symmetrical position; I would fix my will intently
and persistently on a certain point in space and time that was within my
memory--for instance, the avenue gate on a certain Christmas afternoon,