“Why did she call you?” Janet Henry asked.
“Paul had gone out and she didn’t know where to find him.”
“Doesn’t she know that you and Paul have quarreled?”
“Apparently not.” He put down his fork. “Look here. Are you sure you want to go through with this thing?”
“I want to go through with it more than I ever wanted to do anything in my life,” she told him.
Ned Beaumont laughed bitterly, said: “They’re practically the same words Paul used telling me how much he wanted you.”
She shuddered, her face hardened, and she looked coldly at him.
He said: “I don’t know about you. I’m not sure of you. I had a dream I don’t much like.”
She smiled then. “Surely you don’t believe in dreams?”
He did not smile. “I don’t believe in anything, but I’m too much of a gambler not to be affected by a lot of things.”
Her smile became less mocking. She asked: “What was this dream that makes you mistrust me?” She held up a finger, pretending seriousness. “And then I’ll tell you one I had about you.”
“I was fishing,” he said, “and I caught an enormous fish–a rainbow trout, but enormous–and you said you wanted to look at it and you picked it up and threw it back in the water before I could stop you.”
She laughed merrily. “What did you do?”
“That was the end of the dream.”
“It was a lie,” she said. “I won’t throw your trout back. Now I’ll tell you mine. I was–” Her eyes widened. “When was yours? The night you came to dinner?”
“No. Last night.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. It would be nicer in an impressive way if we’d done our dreaming on the same night and the same hour and the same minute. Mine was the night you were there. We were–this is in the dream–we were lost in a forest, you and I, tired and starving. We walked and walked till we came to a little house and we knocked on the door, but nobody answered. We tried the door. It was locked. Then we peeped through a window and inside we could see a great big table piled high with all imaginable kinds of food, but we couldn’t get in through either of the windows because they had iron bars over them. So we went back to the door and knocked and knocked again and still nobody answered. Then we thought that sometimes people left their keys under door-mats and we looked and there it was. But when we opened the door we saw hundreds and hundreds of snakes on the floor where we hadn’t been able to see them through the window and they all came sliding and slithering towards us. We slammed the door shut and locked it and stood there frightened to death listening to them hissing and knocking their heads against the inside of the door. Then you said that perhaps if we opened the door and hid from the snakes they’d come out and go away, so we did. You helped me climb up on the roof–it was low in this part of the dream: I don’t remember what it was like before–and you climbed up after me and leaned down and unlocked the door, and all the snakes came slithering out. We lay holding our breath on the roof until the last of the hundreds and hundreds of them had slithered out of sight into the forest. Then we jumped down and ran inside and locked the door and ate and ate and ate and I woke sitting up in bed clapping my hands and laughing.”
“I think you made that up,” Ned Beaumont said after a little pause.
“Why?”
“It starts out to be a nightmare and winds up something else and all the dreams I ever had about food ended before I got a chance to do any actual eating.”
Janet Henry laughed. “I didn’t make all of it up,” she said, “but you needn’t ask which part is true. You’ve accused me of lying and I’ll tell you nothing now.”
“Oh, all right.” He picked up his fork again, but did not eat. He asked, with an air of just having the thought: “Does your father know anything? Do you think we could get anything out of him if we went to him with what we