It was a cool summer afternoon in a quiet hotel in a quiet part of Paris. I threw myself lazily into an easy-chair on the balcony and began reading Le Journal. I was somewhat tired and soon felt myself drowsily wandering into dreamland as the breeze lulled me soothingly. I felt myself, as it were, wafted through the air. Soon I found myself in the company of a friend of mine and his wife, though I do not know how all that came about. We passed together through the Bois de Boulogne, now amidst tall, green forests, now along the turfy shores of mirror-like lakes
