FullReads

A strange illumination came upon Paul. Where had he heard something like this before? But at the same moment his thoughts were diverted by the material entrance of a footman, bearing a silver salver with his dinner. It was part of his singular experience that the visible entrance of this real, commonplace mortal–the only one he had seen–in the midst of this voiceless solitude was distinctly unreal, and had all the effect of an apparition. He distrusted it and the dishes before him. But his lively partner’s voice was now addressing an unseen occupant of the next chair. Had she got tired of his ignorance, or was it feminine tact to enable him to eat something? He accepted the latter hypothesis, and tried to eat. But he felt himself following the fascinating voice in all the charm of its youthful and spiritual inflections. Taking advantage of its momentary silence, he said gently,–

“I confess my ignorance, and am willing to admit all you claim for this wonderful invention. But do you think it compensates for the loss of the individual person? Take my own case–if you will not think me personal. I have never had the pleasure of seeing you; do you believe that I am content with only that suggestion of your personality which the satisfaction of hearing your voice affords me?”

There was a pause, and then a very mischievous ring in the voice that replied: “It certainly is a personal question, and it is another blessing of this invention that you’ll never know whether I am blushing or not; but I forgive you, for I never before spoke to any one I had never seen–and I suppose it’s confusion. But do you really think you would know me–the REAL one–any better? It is the real person who thinks and speaks, not the outward semblance that we see, which very often unfairly either attracts or repels us? We can always SHOW ourselves at our best, but we must, at last, reveal our true colors through our thoughts and speech. Isn’t it better to begin with the real thing first?”

“I hope, at least, to have the privilege of judging by myself,” said Paul gallantly. “You will not be so cruel as not to let me see you elsewhere, otherwise I shall feel as if I were in some dream, and will certainly be opposed to your preference for realities.”

“I am not certain if the dream would not be more interesting to you,” said the voice laughingly. “But I think your hostess is already saying ‘good-by.’ You know everybody goes at once at this kind of party; the ladies don’t retire first, and the gentlemen join them afterwards. In another moment we’ll ALL be switched off; but Sir William wants me to tell you that his coachman will drive you to your uncle’s, unless you prefer to try and make yourself comfortable for the night here. Good-by!”

The voices around him seemed to grow fainter, and then utterly cease. The lights suddenly leaped up, went out, and left him in complete darkness. He attempted to rise, but in doing so overset the dishes before him, which slid to the floor. A cold air seemed to blow across his feet. The “good-by” was still ringing in his ears as he straightened himself to find he was in his railway carriage, whose door had just been opened for a young lady who was entering the compartment from a wayside station. “Good-by,” she repeated to the friend who was seeing her off. The Writer of Stories hurriedly straightened himself, gathered up the magazines and papers that had fallen from his lap, and glanced at the station walls. The old illustrations glanced back at him! He looked at his watch; he had been asleep just ten minutes!