There were intervals during the three months which followed when I believed that I was walking in a dream, and waking would find me grubbing at my desk in New York.

It was so unreal for these days; mosaic romance in the heart of prosaic fact! Was there ever the like?
It was real enough, however, in the daytime, when the roar of London hammered at my ears, but when I sat alone in my room it assumed the hazy garments of a dream.

Sometimes I caught myself listening for Hillars: a footstep in the corridor, and I would take my pipe from my mouth and wait expectantly.

But the door never opened and the footsteps always passed on.

Often in my dreams I stood by the river again.