“Not if it was _all_ a dream,” said Robert. “The wish said _all_ a dream, you know, Panther; you cut up and ask if he lent you anything.” “I beg your pardon,” said Anthea politely, following the sound of her knock into the presence of the learned gentleman, “I’m _so_ sorry to trouble you, but _did_ you lend me a pound today?” “No,” said he, looking kindly at her through his spectacles. “But it’s extraordinary that you should ask me, for I dozed for a few moments this afternoon, a thing I very rarely do, and I dreamed quite distinctly that you brought me a ring that you said belonged to the Queen of Babylon, and that I lent you a sovereign and that you left one of the Queen’s rings here. The ring was a magnificent specimen.” He sighed. “I wish it hadn’t been a dream,” he said smiling. He was really learning to smile quite nicely. Anthea could not be too thankful that the Psammead was not there to grant his wish. CHAPTER IX. ATLANTIS You will understand that the adventure of the Babylonian queen in London was the only one that had occupied any time at all. But the children’s time was very fully taken up by talking over all the wonderful things seen and done in the Past, where, by the power of the Amulet, they seemed to spend hours and hours, only to find when they got back to London that the whole thing had been briefer than a lightning flash. They talked of the Past at their meals, in their walks, in the dining-room, in the first-floor drawing-room, but most of all on the stairs. It was an old house; it had once been a fashionable one, and was a fine one still. The banister rails of the stairs were excellent for sliding down, and in the corners of the landings were big alcoves that had once held graceful statues, and now quite often held the graceful forms of Cyril, Robert, Anthea, and Jane. One day Cyril and Robert in tight white underclothing had spent a pleasant hour in reproducing the attitudes of statues seen either in the British Museum, or in Father’s big photograph book. But the show ended abruptly because Robert wanted to be the Venus of Milo, and for this purpose pulled at the sheet which served for drapery at the very moment when Cyril, looking really quite like the Discobolos—with a gold and white saucer for the disc—was standing on one foot, and under that one foot was the sheet. Of course the Discobolos and his disc and the would-be Venus came down together, and everyone was a good deal hurt, especially the saucer, which would never be the same again, however neatly one might join its uneven bits with Seccotine or the white of an egg. “I hope you’re satisfied,” said Cyril, holding his head where a large lump was rising. “Quite, thanks,” said Robert bitterly. His thumb had caught in the banisters and bent itself back almost to breaking point.