Bridget went to sleep with the smell of his tobacco--and yet did not seem to mind it in the least--coming in whiffs through the door cracks and filling her nostrils.

She too dreamed--a vivid dream, but by some law of contrariety, not of any idyllic camping ground in the Never-Never Land.
She dreamed that she was seeing the Carnival at Nice--a medley of dancing waves, azure sky, palms, gold-laden orange trees and white green-shuttered houses--flowers, CONFETTI, masks, grotesque pageantry, the merry music of the South.

And though he had never been with her at Nice, Willoughby Maule came into her dream.

They were doing impossible things--dancing together in the Carnival crowd, flinging confetti, bobbing and grimacing before the comic masks.

Then the carnival scene seemed to turn flat, and to become a painted picture on the drop curtain of a stage, and she started up at the sound of knocks such as one hears before the curtain rises in a French theatre..