"Everybody dreams, Aunt Georgy," said Norma, really astonished at her aunt's ignorance of the facts of life. "If you don't remember your dreams, that only shows that they are so awful that you don't allow them to come up into your conscious at all." Aunt Georgy was opening her mouth to contradict, but found that Lisburn was speaking. "That's the theory, Miss Hadley," he said, less positively than Norma; "that everyone dreams, and that our dreams represent our unfulfilled and unacknowledged desires. A type like--like Miss--" "Like Evie," said Norma, a foe to last names. "That type," Lisburn went on--"so restrained, so inhibited, so what is called well-bred, is particularly likely to have dreams and almost certain to be unwilling to admit having them." He stopped as a slight sound at the door that led to the garden made them all turn. Little Evie was standing there--had evidently been standing there for some time. She had on a sky-blue dress, a large childish hat and her arms were full of cherry blossoms. She looked more than usually like a fashion plate of the '40's. Norma immediately shouted at her, "You do dream, don't you, Evie? Be honest for once in your life." Aunt Georgy, who was herself an honest person, was aware of an utterly unsuppressed wish that, whatever the facts were, Evie would say that she had never had a dream in her life. Instead the girl, with her blue eyes fixed on Lisburn, was nodding slowly. "I've begun to dream lately," she said in a low tone. Norma was delighted. "I knew it," she said. "I'd have bet on it. It's extraordinary how one gets to know these things. Tell us what your dream is about, Evie." "Mercy!" exclaimed Aunt Georgy. "Isn't a person allowed more than one dream nowadays?" Evie sank down on the sofa at her aunt's feet. "Mine's always the same," she murmured. "Ah," said Lisburn, "a recurrent dream." He looked at her with interest. "Does it trouble you?" Evie made a cooing sound like a dove, in doubt. Norma began to tease her to tell. Aunt Georgy thought she was tiresome, nagging and bothering like that. She told her to let Evie alone. Norma shrugged her shoulders. "It's so characteristic of that introverted type," she said, "not to be willing to be frank enough to be cured." "Can one be cured?" asked Evie, and she raised her eyes to Lisburn. He was a busy man, and he had stood up to go. "I might--if it troubles you--be able to help you." "Even," said Evie, "though you are not interested in my type?" "Oh," cried Norma, "isn't that like you, Evie! You overheard the whole thing, and instead of having it out then and there, as I should have, you wait and give him a poisoned dig in the ribs when he's trying to be nice to you." Evie repeated in exactly the same tone: "Even though you are not interested in my type?" "I'm always interested in a case," he answered.