“Dear me!” said the Angel; “There’s deer and a stag! Just as they draw them on the coats of arms. How grotesque it all seems! Can I really be awake?”
He rubbed his knuckles into his eyes.
The half-dozen of dappled deer came in Indian file obliquely through the trees and halted, watching. “It’s no dream—I am really a solid concrete Angel, in Dream Land,” said the Angel. He laughed. The Vicar stood surveying him. The Reverend gentleman was pulling his mouth askew after a habit he had, and slowly stroking his chin. He was asking himself whether he too was not in the Land of Dreams.
VII.
Now in the land of the Angels, so the Vicar learnt in the course of many conversations, there is neither pain nor trouble nor death, marrying nor giving in marriage, birth nor forgetting. Only at times new
