"Well, she conveyed the impression that she was not backward," remarked Lord Stafford. "By the way, Uncle," the younger man lit his cigar, laughing amusedly. "Did I ever tell you of a peculiar dream I once had?" "Dream?" "About Miss Stillwater." "Have you been dreaming about that little girl?" "Didn’t I tell you? I thought I had." "Ha, ha, ha! You’ve been dreaming about little Miss Stillwater—that’s rich." "Well, wait until you hear it. Then you’ll have good reason to laugh. It was quite too absurd." "Well." "The night before we started for the West—the night we met Mrs. Bunker at the Waldorf Hotel, in New York—" "Mrs. Bunker—one never knows what that woman is going to say next—she is so—" "She introduced us to the family, and Miss Stillwater and I had some conversation—not much, but quite enough, as you will see—about bears." "Bears?" "She had been used to shooting them, in the Rocky Mountains." "The little girl—the blonde one?" "The little blonde one," repeated Lord Canning, with a softer intonation. "Well, I dreamt I saw her riding on the back of a grizzly, over the highest peak of the Rocky Mountains. She was in full evening dress, and on seeing me, she hilariously waved a bunch of hyacinths—she carried those flowers the night I met her." "Mrs. Bunker had carnations—I took one—ha, ha, ha!" "I was on my knees examining strata. When I saw the lady riding towards me, I rose and bowed profoundly. But she returned my polite salute by throwing her bouquet directly in my face—I felt the blow, I smelt the hyacinths—then I awoke—before the lady apologized, allowing that she had that intention. It was all so absurd and incongruous, and yet so distinct. Miss Stillwater looked as natural as life, and sat the bear in such a graceful fashion—she might have been riding a finely bred horse in Hyde Park." Lord Stafford, listening with closed eyes, made an articulate noise. Whether it was expressive of wonder, disbelief, or ridicule, it was difficult to say. "But what I consider most remarkable, is that I saw the Rockies very much as I saw them in reality, later on. I explain this on the score of—suggestion. Miss Stillwater has spent some time in the Rockies. Naturally, our conversation recalled them to her mind, and she, of course, unconsciously suggested them to me. It was quite—psychic." "Nightmare," murmured Lord Stafford, sleepily, "what did you eat for supper?" "I don’t know," said Lord Canning, disgustedly. "Don’t attribute everything to what one eats." "You will, when you’re my age. Now it’s ’suggestion’, and ’quite psychic.’ If that little, dainty, yellow-haired Miss Assurance had been an unattractive, elderly person, she wouldn’t have suggested a pin’s worth to you—beyond the fact that she was ugly. I must say, I never heard you go on like that before, Thurston." "Go on like _what_?" "Oh, about your dreams. Only old women tell their dreams. Ha, ha, ha!"