The Project Gutenberg eBook of I'll dream of you

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Title: I'll dream of you

Author: Henry Farrell

Illustrator: Rod Ruth

Release date: September 13, 2023 [eBook #71629]

Language: English

Original publication: Chicago, IL: Ziff-Davis Publishing Company, 1946

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/71629

Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK I'LL DREAM OF YOU ***

I'LL DREAM OF YOU

By Charles F. Myers

Toffee was just a girl in Marc

Pillsworth's dreams—until he awoke

one day to find the dream a reality.

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from

Fantastic Adventures January 1947.

Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that

the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

Toffee leaned back against the tree and passed a slender hand through her red hair. As her arm relaxed, she let it fall carelessly about Marc's neck. Lazily, her green eyes traced his profile and found it, if not classic, highly satisfactory.

"Kiss me," she said.

"Oh, for Pete's sake," murmured Marc, continuing to stare straight ahead.

Toffee followed his gaze to the scene before them. The entire countryside, apparently unaware of its inherent stateliness, was caught in a sort of informal gaiety.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Toffee asked.

"Yes," replied Marc dreamily.

"You seem fascinated by beauty, almost starved for it."

Marc nodded and leaned his head back further on the tree.

"Then get fascinated, you dope," Toffee leaned forward to face him.

"Huh?" Marc stared at the girl as though he hadn't been quite aware of her before.

"I'm beautiful too and twice as much fun." It was a simple statement of fact. "Kiss me," she added.

"Haven't you any restraint?"

"With everything else I have, you ask for restraint!" Toffee drew nearer.

"You're shameless," said Marc.

"Naturally." Toffee closed her eyes and advanced her lips to his. Abruptly, Marc threw his hands to the grass before him and boosted himself to his feet, leaving Toffee's arm to fall dejectedly to her side.

"Maybe next time," she murmured, shrugging her shoulders. "Even the glacial age had to come to an end eventually."

Marc caught hold of a limb just over his head and swung effortlessly to a branch above Toffee, where he settled himself comfortably and continued his studied contemplation of the landscape. Toffee reached a hand toward him and waited.

"Well, don't just sit there like a stone image," she called. "Give me a hand. I want up too."

Slowly, Marc looked down at her and studied the pert, upturned face with solemn gravity. Suddenly, he shook his head and returned to his attitude of sombre speculation. Toffee seemed not at all daunted.

"I'll show you," she yelled. "I'll shake you out of there like a cocoanut." With that, she took hold of the tree and began to tug at it vehemently until, slowly it began to sway. As though she had pulled a bell cord, a soft, distinct tolling began to make itself heard, and as the tree swayed more violently, the sound became louder. Soon the motion of the tree became so great that Marc found himself clutching the branch to keep his balance.

"For the love of Mike, Toffee!" he yelled through the uproar of the bell. "Stop it! Do you want me to break my neck?"

"But I'm not doing it!" hollered Toffee. It seemed that the tree had become possessed of a will of its own as it rocked back and forth in a constantly increasing arc. Toffee stood back from it in terror. As it made a new, deeper lunge, Marc lost his seat but continued to cling to the branch with his hands. At the end of the arc, the tree seemed to pause in anticipation of a final gigantic thrust. As it did so, the clap of the bell was almost intolerable. Suddenly, Marc felt himself lifted and hurled swiftly into space. He seemed to be flying upward and away from the earth, as though the force of gravity had utterly forsaken him.

As he sailed along, he looked back over his shoulder to behold a scene that was especially disconcerting. All the earth below him seemed to be caught in the swaying motion of the tree. It rocked crazily in a see-saw motion, constantly accompanied by the tolling of the great, ghostly bell. Then, suddenly, the action stopped. The earth shuddered and seemed to crumble, falling into space. Through the ensuing quiet, Marc could only wonder at what had happened; then, faintly, through the sound of rushing air, he began to hear his name being called. He turned his head quickly to see Toffee rushing through space after him.

"Wait Marc. Wait!" she cried.

He reached a hand out, toward her.

Marc's hand fell heavily to the alarm clock on the bedside table and the noise ceased. The fact that he was awake didn't mean that he was rested. He rolled over in the bed without opening his eyes, and began carefully to review the dream, for it had left him strangely uneasy. The thing that disturbed him most was the girl, Toffee. As he thought of her, she became more and more vivid, more and more insistent as a real personality. It was strange how real she did seem, especially since she had been so unlike any girl that Marc had ever known. It wasn't that he wouldn't have liked to have known a girl like that, it was just that he had been so occupied with the development of the Pillsworth Advertising Agency that he rarely had time for girls like, or unlike, Toffee. The dream had brought to him a vague suspicion that perhaps something was missing in his life, something like Toffee for instance. There was Julie Mason of course, Marc's secretary, but although she was an even match for any model that had ever been in the office, Julie was still a very efficient business woman, and for some reason that cancelled irrevocably any idea of romance. He sat up in bed and stretched his arms up, over his head, yawning luxuriously. Suddenly, he became transfixed, his arms rigid above him and his mouth wide open. He stared in fascination at the foot of the bed.

Toffee turned and smiled wickedly.

"I almost didn't make it," she said. "Thanks for the lift."

Marc's lips worked feverishly but produced nothing intelligible.

"Well, don't just sit there making faces, tell me how glad you are to see me—and put your arms down."

Slowly and mechanically, Marc lowered his arms.

"Now," Toffee continued. "Let's not waste time—kiss me." She raised herself from the edge of the bed and moved toward him.

Instantly, Marc became animated, leaping from the bed like a flushed bird. He rushed to the window and seemed about to jump, when, suddenly, he halted. Slowly, he turned and faced her.

"I've gone mad," he muttered. "I'm nuts!"

Toffee remained by the bed in a state of acute bewilderment. This wasn't precisely the reaction that she had expected.

"We're not going through all that again?" Her voice expressed utter disappointment.

"Get out!" yelled Marc. "Get out of here you—you—you figment!"

"But Marc, don't you know me? I'm Toffee, your dream girl."

"Go get yourself into a dream then," yelled Marc. "I'm awake."

"Oh, I see what's troubling you." A bright smile lighted Toffee's face. "Now, just come over here and sit down while I explain everything." She extended a hand to him and, fascinated, Marc moved toward her and sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed.

"That's nice," cooed Toffee. "Now just stop being so jumpy and I'll tell you all about it. In the first place, you dreamed me up. All I am I owe to you and, judging by the mirror, I'd say that was plenty. Up until now, I've existed only in your subconscious, but last night, while you were dreaming, you released me, gave me physical dimensions and a personality. Now, that works both ways; it was the first chance I'd had to see you too. Well, it seemed that you were a nice enough guy, but a little mixed up about a lot of important things, so I decided to materialize myself and help you out. And let me tell you, that materializing stuff is no easy proposition."

Marc's eyes filled with wonder.

"You mean to tell me you're really here—in the flesh, I mean?"

Toffee slowly crossed one lovely leg over the other. "What do you think?" she asked.

"Well, you'll have to go back," Marc yelled, jumping up. "It's very nice of you to want to help out and all, but I can take care of things for myself. Thank you very much. Now, goodbye." He stood back from her as though expecting an explosion, but nothing happened.

"Well, you heard me. Goodbye—fade—dematerialize—do your stuff!" Toffee smiled mysteriously and shook her head.

"Sorry boss, I can't do it. The only way for me to disappear is for you to go to sleep, then I have to return, but when you wake up, I'll be right back. Once you get it started, it works automatically. Of course there is one way to get rid of me for good but we won't go into that, not just yet anyway. And while we're on the subject, I may as well tell you—I'm pretty sick of that subconscious of yours. A girl could certainly ask for better company. I've never seen so many stuffy ideas. All that will be changed of course."

Marc shuddered as Toffee sat back with a satisfied smile.

"You're completely unprincipled," he groaned.

"You'd better not start criticizing. Like the man says, you made me what I am today and you'd bloody well better be satisfied." Toffee was interrupted by a timid knock on the door.

"Good grief!" cried Marc. "That's Joseph. Do something!"

Toffee knew exactly what to do. She ran quickly to the mirror, and after several pats at her hair, turned, in a seductive pose to face the door. It was then that Marc noticed her costume, a light, transparent affair that seemed but half inclined to stay in place. The tableau that she presented was effective, but extremely alarming under the circumstances.

"What do you think you're doing," hissed Marc.

"I like to look my best when gentlemen are calling," giggled Toffee.

Frantically, Marc rushed and grabbed a sheet, then rushed to Toffee with some idea of concealing her. Of course Toffee was of no mind to have her obvious charms hidden, and a wild struggle ensued.

Slowly, the door opened and an aged head appeared in the opening. Large watery eyes fell on the disturbing scene and became even larger. Instantly, the head disappeared and the door slammed to.

"There, now see what you've done," yelled Marc.

Toffee threw the sheet disdainfully aside.

"And what do you expect a lady to do when she's attacked?"

"Attacked!" Marc screamed indignantly.

"Just because another man comes into the room is no reason for you to go showing off like a juvenile delinquent."

Marc snorted with helpless rage. "I was trying to cover you up!"

"Oh—," murmured Toffee with obvious disappointment.

"Joseph is one of the best valets in the business, but also one of the most moral," explained Marc. "I've had to be a regular saint to keep him, and now you—! He'll quit me like a flash."

"You'll be better off without him," said Toffee with conviction. "You see! I'm beginning to help you already."

Marc tossed a dressing gown to Toffee with instructions to put it on and wait for him in the sitting room. He dressed quickly and joined her there with deep misgivings as Toffee looked up brightly from the divan.

"This is a pretty swank apartment, Marc. You must be rich."

"Never mind that, we've got to do something about you," he said, seating himself beside her.

"I'm just loaded with suggestions," said Toffee archly.

"You're just loaded," growled Marc. "You can't stay here and I can't turn you loose in that get-up." He indicated her brief costume.

"You could buy me some clothes," suggested Toffee.

Silently, Joseph shuffled into the room, halted just behind them and fixed his eyes firmly on the ceiling. He cleared his throat with a bark that would have done Lassie all kinds of credit. Marc started from his seat as though he had been kicked.

"Breakfast," announced Joseph in a voice that made it sound like a direct accusation.

As the elevator door closed behind Marc and Toffee, a low whistle issued from the cage. The operator had let them out in the basement, whether from confusion or discretion, Marc couldn't be sure, but decided that perhaps it was all for the best. By keeping Toffee low and behind him, they managed to get to the car in the downstairs garage without attracting too much attention.

Once out in the street, Marc felt better, but the ordeal to come had him worried. Toffee had insisted on selecting the clothes in person.

"Now get what you need," instructed Marc, "but get it in a hurry. And above all, get something to put on just as soon as we get inside."

Toffee nodded excitedly.

By repeating the crouch and run routine, they managed to get into the store safely, and luckily it was still early enough that only a few customers were about. Marc quickly hid Toffee behind a clothes rack and went in search of an understanding saleslady. He spotted a neon marker at the other side of the store that said: "Ladies' Ready-to-Wear," and made his way in that direction. As he entered the department a tousled, gray head jutted from behind a plaster figure and Marc started back in alarm. Two beady, black eyes rolled crazily and the teeth were bared, clenching an amazing number of straight pins. Slowly a gnarled hand appeared beneath the chin and the mouth spewed the pins into it and broke into a horrible grimace that was apparently meant to be a smile.

"I'm Miss Clatt." The small, piping voice sounded somewhat lost in the horrible head. "May I help you?" Slowly the head moved from behind the figure, dragging with it a small, well padded body, perched precariously atop a pair of delicate pipe-stem legs.

"I need an outfit," stammered Marc. "A complete outfit."

"Oh," replied Miss Clatt disappointedly. "You'll find Men's Furnishings on the third floor—just take the elevator."

"You don't understand," said Marc hurriedly. "It's a lady's outfit I want."

Miss Clatt looked disapproving. "You'll find a theatrical costumer in the next block."

"No, no, I want it for a lady. She's with me, waiting up front there." Marc gestured toward the main entrance. "I'd appreciate it if you'd hurry. She hasn't any clothes."

Miss Clatt's hand went to her throat and her eyes began to roll again.

"Naked?" she whispered.

"No, of course not," replied Marc with dignity. "She's wearing a robe."

"Oh," said Miss Clatt as if that explained everything, then on second thought added: "Oh, dear!"

Swiftly they moved across the store with Marc in the lead and Miss Clatt hopping along behind him. Marc stopped before the clothing rack and parted the coats hanging on it, only to be greeted by the blank wall.

"I left her right here," he said turning to Miss Clatt in bewilderment. But the old lady wasn't listening.

"Gracious," she said. Her eyes had begun to rotate again and she was staring toward the sidewalk. Marc followed her gaze and saw what appeared to be a small riot before the store. Leaving the bewildered Miss Clatt by the rack, he raced for the door and forced his way into the crowd.

"It's just shameful what these stores will do for publicity," said a lady's voice. "Just shameful!"

"Stop crowdin', Bud," said a little man as Marc shoved past him. "I want to see too. Ain't seen anything like this since I got married."

Marc stretched to his toes and peered into the window. It was even worse than he had expected. There in the show-case was Toffee. She had managed to get a black evening gown off one of the mannikins and was trying to put it on without removing the robe. This operation led to a series of maneuvers that would have sent any professional stripper into paroxysms of envy. Occasionally she paused in her questionable activities to smile at the crowd about the window and acknowledge the resultant cheers of encouragement. Marc wheeled about and fought his way wildly back into the store.

"Heavens," gasped Miss Clatt as he raced past, almost knocking her down. "What a strange young man—so impetuous!"

Frantically Marc clawed at the show-case door and finally got it open.

"Stop that!" he yelled as he jumped into the case.

"But you told me to get something to wear right away," cried Toffee.

At Marc's appearance in the window, the crowd became momentarily silent, awaiting developments. Marc ran to Toffee and, getting between her and her audience, tried to disengage the black dress.

"Stop that," yelled Toffee. "I've almost got it on." But her words were lost in an angry roar from the crowd.

"Just like my husband," murmured a matronly lady. "Never wants me to have a thing to wear. Look at that poor child—almost naked."

A salesgirl from the five and ten paused on her way to work.

"Just like my Oscar," she remarked bitterly, as she peered into the window. "No sense of the time and place."

Inside the window, a state of chaos had swiftly been reached. In their struggle, Toffee and Marc had managed to knock down several dummies and get themselves hopelessly entangled in the mess. The scene was now made up entirely of a horrible, wild mass of frantic arms and legs. Suddenly the mob became silent once more at the rather dismaying appearance of Miss Clatt in the window. She stopped short and surveyed the terrifying display with eyes that revolved like pin-wheels. Hastily, she gained the front of the window by a series of quick, side-stepping hops and pulled down the huge shade, shutting off the window from the street. Instantly a loud roar of disappointment was heard from the crowd.

"My, my," murmured Miss Clatt, as she reached into the heap of arms and legs in an attempt to disentangle the frantic couple.

Toffee was the first to emerge. Miraculously, she had somehow managed, during the struggle, to get into the evening gown. She smiled at Miss Clatt.

"I can't stand men who make scenes, can you?" she asked haughtily.

"I make scenes!" yelled Marc, casting a dummy aside.

"You heard me," said Toffee icily as she stalked from the window with an air of outraged dignity.

Marc stood, for a moment, glaring after her. Finally, noticing that Miss Clatt was plucking at his sleeve, he helped her from the case and followed. When they reached the "Ladies' Ready-to-Wear" department, they found Toffee posing before a full length mirror. She turned to Marc and smiled ecstatically. She looked radiant.

"I could almost forgive you," she cooed.

Marc couldn't say anything. He just glowered.

For fifteen years, Marc Pillsworth hadn't been late for work for a single day, so it was no wonder that his appearance at noon caused considerable excited speculation throughout the agency. The fact that he was accompanied by an extremely racy looking red-head in a black evening gown, lent real shock value to the occasion. To make matters worse, Marc managed to announce his humiliation to the entire staff by rushing through the outer office like a reluctant criminal being taken into custody before a battery of news-reel cameras. Toffee, however, aware that she was cutting quite a figure, (most of which was startlingly apparent), was like a flower girl at a wedding. She had warm smiles for everyone, especially the men.

Swiftly, Marc gained the door to his private office and disappeared inside, but Toffee, upon reaching it, caught in the gala atmosphere of the occasion, turned to face the astonished group.

"You wonderful people—," she began. What message she had for the employees of the Pillsworth Agency was to remain forever a mystery, for suddenly, she lurched backwards into the office and the door slammed to.

"What do you think you're doing!" yelled Marc.

"Let go of me," said Toffee indignantly. "I was only making friends."

Marc sighed deeply. "And why on earth did you have to wear that? Heaven only knows what they're thinking out there."

"I know," replied Toffee simply.

Marc turned from her in the resignation of despair, and suddenly stopped short. Facing him, mouth agape, was Julie Mason.

"Good morning, Julie," he stammered.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Pillsworth," said Julie absently. Her gaze followed Toffee as she crossed to one of the large, upholstered chairs.

"Oh, yes," said Marc hurriedly. "Julie, this is Toffee, my—uh—my niece. She lost her baggage on the way out and had to wear just what she had left." He laughed nervously, hoping that the fact that Toffee had seen fit to be caught short in an evening gown, might somehow explain itself.

"How-do-you-do," said Julie icily, noting that Marc was a wretched liar.

Toffee peered from the chair to take in the cool, blond Julie.

"Marc has had some lovely thoughts about you," she said gaily. Julie turned to Marc in bewilderment, but he couldn't think of anything to say. Suddenly she pivoted and rushed from the room. The door didn't exactly slam behind her, but there was no doubt about its being closed. Marc slumped into the chair at his desk and stared forlornly after her.

For a time it was quiet in the office until Toffee rose from the chair and crossed to a mirror at the opposite side of the room. Suddenly she turned to Marc.

"Stop that day dreaming," she commanded. "You're making me fade." Marc glanced up. Toffee had suddenly turned quite pale.

"I forgot to tell you," she said earnestly. "It isn't just that I disappear when you sleep, I also fade when you day-dream. Please stay awake."

Marc stared at her in fascination and his expression became quite thoughtful.

A door at the back of the room opened cautiously and Julie's face appeared in the opening.

"The models are here for the Sheer Hosiery ad.," she announced.

"I'll be right out, Julie." Marc swung out of the chair and toward the door. He turned back to Toffee.

"I'll be back in a moment, don't leave the office."

As Marc entered the hall, he saw Julie going into her office next door.

"Julie!" he called.

"Yes, Mr. Pillsworth?"

She turned to him, and for a moment Marc couldn't remember what he had started to say.

"Would you help me choose a model, please?" he asked finally. Julie nodded and, together, they crossed to the "Audition" room.

"Raise your skirts, please," said Julie as they entered. Quickly, the girls formed a line and did as they were told. Instantly, Marc's eye was caught by a black skirt at the end of the line, being lifted unnecessarily high. He leaped quickly and caught it just in time.

"Stop that and get out of here," he hissed.

"Not on your life," murmured Toffee acidly. "Any time you go around looking at legs, you'll look at mine—understand?"

"Can't I make you understand that this is a business office?"

"What a business!" Toffee glanced significantly at the line of shapely legs.

"Get out of here!" Marc glanced furtively at Julie.

"I'll make you a deal," replied Toffee sweetly.

"Anything!"

"If you'll take me to the swankiest night club in town tonight, I'll leave with, or without, a struggle—however you want it."

"Yes, yes, anything," said Marc quickly. He took her by the arm and led her past the line of girls. At the door he turned back to Julie.

"Will you select one and dismiss the others?"

"Of course." Julie kept her eyes on the models.

Quickly, she chose one of the girls, gave her the address of the photographer and sent the others away. After they had gone, she crossed to the window and stared intently at the city below her. She didn't move for several minutes. Presently, she turned and left the room. Julie wasn't the kind for crying.

"Isn't it heavenly," sighed Toffee as she surveyed the smart Spar Club. Marc's feeling was one of unmixed apprehension as he took into account the wayward gleam in her eye.

"Judging by the pagan display on the dance floor, I should say that this is about as unlike heaven as anything could be," he replied sourly.

"Well, anyway, the music is good."

Marc glanced at the orchestra, a disconsolate group of musicians, wedged uncomfortably into a bandstand that appeared more like a jeweler's show-case. These men peered malevolently from their perch and alleviated an obvious resentment for the paying guests by blasting away at them with their instruments as loudly and unrelatedly as possible. One young man, with some sort of horn, seemed to be nursing an especial grudge, for occasionally he would leave his seat, and coming to the front of the minute platform, set the thing into a squeal that was nothing short of terrifying.

Marc looked to the people at the tables about theirs, but none of them seemed at all disturbed by this hysterical performance. He shrugged and picked up the bottle from the ice bucket. He had never been a drinking man but he felt that it might help him to understand what was going on.

"Oh, don't we know her?" asked Toffee suddenly.

"Stop pointing—who?"

"The girl just coming in, the one with the white dress and perfectly haunting man."

Marc turned and looked in the direction Toffee had indicated.

"Why, it's Julie!" he exclaimed.

"Who's that with her?"

"Jack Snell, he's an artist with the agency. I never did like him, but he's too good a layout man to lose. I wonder what Julie's doing with him."

"Ask him over," urged Toffee.

Marc raised a hand and wig-wagged in their direction. Jack Snell was a born "Gathering Appraiser," and it didn't take him long to catch the signal. As they moved across the floor toward him, Marc couldn't help noticing that Julie looked especially wonderful. This was the first time he had seen her outside of the office and her white lace dress emphasized all the glamour that her customary business suit suppressed.

"She looks like something out of a dream," he thought and then blanched. He revised the thought hurriedly: "She looks like something out of real life."

"Hello," said Jack. He addressed Marc but looked at Toffee. His face lit up like a pin ball machine. Toffee had run up a winning score.

"Oh, yes," said Marc quickly, "I want you to meet Toffee, my—uh—my cousin."

"She was your niece earlier today," Julie said evenly.

Marc laughed self-consciously as Jack and Julie seated themselves at the table. Julie turned to Toffee.

"Are you enjoying your visit here?"

"Oh, yes," replied Toffee with enthusiasm. "Everyone seems so friendly. Do you know what one man said to me today?"

"I could guess," said Julie flatly.

"I think we should dance," Jack cut in quickly.

"Oh, I'd love to," beamed Toffee.

They rose and started for the dance floor. Turning, Toffee said: "You'll excuse us?" She was looking directly at Julie.

"Did you want to dance," asked Marc without enthusiasm.

"No, thank you," replied Julie. "The floor is much too crowded."

"That's good, I don't know how very well."

"You never go out much, do you? That is, you haven't until lately."

"Why, no. I've been too busy—until lately. Perhaps that was a mistake."

"Perhaps," said Julie cryptically as she turned to the dance floor.

"You're looking very beautiful," said Marc.

"Am I?" Julie continued to look away but she couldn't restrain a faint smile.

Marc found himself with nothing to say, but continued to stare at Julie. He couldn't get over the change in her. His mind wandered off into a lovely, imaginary land without night clubs, in which he and Julie were the only inhabitants.

Jack danced on, completely at ease while around him people started to edge away with startled glances....

This was extremely unfortunate for, out on the dance floor, Jack Snell suddenly found himself dancing, inexplicably and most embarrassingly, alone. Toffee had suddenly vanished into thin air. He also found himself alarmingly confronted by Mrs. Claribel Housing, a matron of tremendous prominence, in more ways and places than one. Mrs. Housing understood any misdemeanor perpetrated in the Spray Club as a personal affront, to be dealt with personally. After all, it did cast unflattering reflections on her "Set."

"Young man," she boomed. "I wonder if you realize what a disgusting exhibition you are presenting. I should think that if you must get roaring drunk, you could do it somewhere less public."

Jack turned to her dazedly. "But I had a girl," he said unhappily. "I seem to have lost her."

A soft light came into Mrs. Housing's eyes. "He's gone mad," she shouted, turning to her partner. "He's lost his girl, and it's driven him crazy."

If there was anything that put life into Claribel Housing, it was "straightening out" someone else's life. She looked on Jack with the air of the practiced social worker.

"There, there, son," she roared. "Don't take on so about it. I'm sure she wasn't half good enough for you." She placed a beefy arm about his shoulder, and nodded to her partner. "Everett, we must do something for this poor soul."

Everett Housing had learned to accept his wife's "projects" with resigned good humor.

"Yes, dear," he sighed, and followed obediently as his wife led the hapless Jack from the dance floor. It didn't seem to concern the matron that the dancers were stopping to observe their progress.

Back at the table, Julie, noticing the excitement, reached for Marc's sleeve.

"Something's happening to Jack and Toffee!" she cried, jumping up. Marc, jolted from his reverie, followed after her. They reached the group on the dance floor just in time to witness Toffee's reappearance.

"What's going on here?" screamed Toffee, confronting Mrs. Housing.

"Please get out of my way," said Mrs. Housing regally.

"Get out of your way!" Toffee flared. "You should be ashamed of yourself! Picking up a girl's man when her back is turned—and on public dance floors too! And at your age!"

Mrs. Housing seemed to explode.

"How dare you! I should think that you had caused enough trouble,—you little floosey!" It was apparent to her that this was the young lady who had unseated Jack's reason. At this point Jack did, indeed, appear somewhat demented. Through the ensuing uproar, he tried valiantly but vainly to make himself heard, and seemed merely to be babbling to himself. Toffee was beside herself with rage.

"Why, you—you—you old back issue," she yelled. "You outsized pick-up!" She swung her foot behind her and calculated the distance to Mrs. Housing's shin. Unfortunately, her heel caught on the rung of Mr. Kently's chair. That good gentleman, unconcerned of the tumult raging just behind him, was, at the moment, determinedly offering a toast to his wife on the occasion of their twenty-fifth anniversary. He lifted his glass, and with the words: "And to you, my dear—," tossed its entire contents neatly into Mrs. Kently's face. Toffee had jerked the chair swiftly from under him. Mrs. Kently shot out of her chair with a scream designed for blood chilling.

Across the room, a guest, somewhat befogged by too much drink, raised a heavy head and shouted: "Murder!" at the top of his lungs. Across from him, his companion looked up with startled eyes and quietly slid under the table, unconscious. The man looked down at her without concern.

"Can't stand the sight of blood," he explained to no one in particular.

The center of this excitement suddenly dissipated itself with the stately, if hurried, departure of Mrs. Housing and her obedient husband, but the fever of hysteria had already spread to the remaining guests and was raging unabated. The orchestra, caught in the spirit of the occasion, struck up a raucous rendition of "The Beer Barrel Polka." Several guests, similarly inspired, rapped their partners rather ungently over the head with whatever bottles were at hand. The door to the manager's office opened briefly and slammed to. Finally, Marc managed to fight his way through to Toffee.

"Now, see what you've done!" he yelled.

"So this is night clubbing," squealed Toffee delightedly.

"We have to get out of here," Marc guided her away from the dance floor.

"Just when things were really getting started?" asked Toffee. "Where are Jack and Julie?"

"They've gone and we'd better do the same."

"Just a moment," replied Toffee and disappeared into the crowd again. Marc made a grab for her but missed. Presently she returned, beaming triumphantly. Under her arm, she carried a bottle of champagne.

"I don't see why we should let it go to waste," she explained. Marc groaned and hurried her off toward the entrance.

Outside, they were greeted not only by the cool, evening air, but also by what appeared to be the entire police force. The manager of the Spar Club stood behind them.

"There they are, boys!" he yelled excitedly. "Grab 'em!"

Toffee was delighted to find herself, once more, the center of attention. She looked up at the judge with a disarming smile. She felt a little sorry for the poor little man—he seemed so perplexed by everything. Marc stood beside her, wondering vaguely if he weren't dead, and if not, why not. The judge fixed Toffee with a baleful stare.

"Who did you say your parents were?" His voice was that of a martyr.

"A moonlit night and a yearning spirit," said Toffee blandly. The judge's eyes rolled ceilingward.

"Oh, good Lord," he sighed in pure supplication.

"What she means—," began Marc.

"You stay out of this!" snapped the judge. "I'll hear from you later."

"But judge," said Toffee. "I don't know how I can make it clearer."

"Never mind," replied the judge hotly. "Let's hear no more about it. I sincerely wish I hadn't brought it up in the first place. Now, perhaps, you'll tell me what went on in the Spar Club this evening, and never mind the poetry."

"Well," said Toffee brightly, "it all started when this old fright tried to steal Mr. Snell from me—right there on the dance floor, too." An earnest expression crept over her face. "She should be locked up, judge."

Marc's thoughts raced wildly. If ever there was a time for Toffee to fade, this was unquestionably it. He clamped his eyes tightly shut and tried frantically to picture peaceful, pastoral scenes in an attempt to induce sleep. However, what occurred to him most frequently were bleak countrysides strewn with assorted wreckage, symbolic of his future.

"Exactly what is your relationship with this man?" The judge nodded in Marc's direction without looking at him.

"Well," said Toffee. "You see, I sort of belong to him, in a way."

"You mean he's your guardian?" This appealed to Toffee and she nodded vigorously. The judge turned to Marc.

"Young man—," he began, then looked questioningly at Toffee. "What's the matter with him?"

Toffee turned to Marc and sudden anger flashed in her eyes.

"You double-crosser!" she hissed. Swiftly her hand shot to Marc's unsuspecting rear and two fingers closed wickedly. Instantly, Marc's eyes flew open and stared wildly at the judge as a piercing scream rent the courtroom and he leaped frantically forward. A small cry of terror was heard from the frightened judge as he disappeared beneath the bench.

"He's attacking me!" he screamed from the floor. "Get him out of here! Get them both out of here! Lock them up before they kill someone!"

As two official brutes closed in on them, Marc angrily faced Toffee.

"If you ever do anything like this again, I'll deliberately contract sleeping sickness!" he shouted.

Marc awoke wondering how long he had been asleep, and, in the grey morning light, began to inspect his quarters without enthusiasm. The cell that he occupied was like any other, but he had been lucky enough to have it all to himself. He lay, face up in the lower section of the steel, double-decker and reviewed the preceding night's activities. Suddenly, he started forward and propped himself up on one elbow. There was a form clearly outlined in the mattress above him. He tried to remember if anyone had been brought into the cell during the night. As he was thinking about it, the form stirred. Slowly, he advanced a hand to the mattress and prodded it gingerly. His suspicions were immediately confirmed.

"Good morning," called Toffee with a hateful cheerfulness as she peered down at him from the upper.

"I thought they put you in the women's quarters."

"They did, but I decided to materialize here, to be with you."

"But, if they find you here—," Marc gave it up. Things couldn't get any worse. "I hope you're happy about this." He waved his hand tragically at the cell.

"Well," said Toffee slowly. "I can think of better places. Let's leave."

"And how do you propose to get out of here?"

"You mean they intend to keep us here?"

"It is likely, considering your performance before the judge last night, that we shall rot in this place."

"We'll just have to get out." Toffee's brow wrinkled sternly.

Marc looked grieved but made no reply. After several moments of concentrated thought, his face lit up.

"Now, look Toffee," he said, "You say that you can materialize anywhere. Suppose I doze off for a while, do you suppose you could manage to "come to" outside and get the keys to this trap? After all, they don't have our names, our real ones, on any of the records yet."

"I could do it with my eyes closed," Toffee cried happily.

"Well, don't get fancy about it."

Marc stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes, and everything became quiet in the cell for a time. Toffee waited expectantly but nothing happened. Marc swung his legs over the edge of the bed and cupped his chin in his hands.

"It's no use," he sighed. "I've too much on my mind.

"Try again," urged Toffee.

"It's no use I tell you."

Toffee sat up and glanced down at Marc. Slowly an intense expression crept over her face. Quietly, she reached down and removed one of her shoes, and regarded it sadly. She leaned over the edge of the bed and poised it over Marc's head. Closing her eyes, she swung the shoe downward as swiftly as she could. Marc slumped to the floor soundlessly.

Marc had been right in assuming that Joseph wouldn't be there to open the door for them. He fitted the key into the lock and turned it.

"You needn't have hit me so hard," he grumbled. Toffee looked hurt.

"I got you out of there, didn't I? Of course, maybe I shouldn't have left that note for the judge." Marc looked alarmed.

"What note?"

"Well, the poor dear was so disturbed about my parentage that I left a note explaining the whole thing. I guess it wasn't such a good idea."

"What did you tell him?"

"That my father was a Welsh." Toffee smiled mysteriously and crossed to inspect herself in the mantle mirror.

"I'm a wreck. You miss me while I fix up a bit?"

Marc fell into a chair as she left the room. He sat there regarding the apartment listlessly. It seemed to reflect his own life. Orderly, dignified, unexciting and infinitely lonely. Suddenly his reverie was interrupted by a knock at the door. He crossed and opened it. There, looking particularly miserable, stood Julie.

"I hope you'll excuse my coming here," she said timidly. "I've been waiting at the office for you all morning. I tried to call you here several times but there wasn't any answer. I decided to come over and wait for you. Its odd that Joseph didn't answer the phone.

"He wasn't in," said Marc. "Is something wrong?"

"Well, no—not exactly." Julie hesitated. "It's just that—well—it's just that—I want to quit my job with you, Mr. Pillsworth.

"What?" Marc's eyes widened with surprise.

"Yes, Mr. Pillsworth, I want to quit." The words came in a rush. "Now—today. I don't want to ever have to go back."

"But you mustn't leave." There was an immediacy in Marc's tone. "How would I get on without you? If it's a matter of salary—."

"No, it isn't that. You give me more than enough to get by on. As a matter of fact, I don't know where I'll ever get a better job."

Marc looked at her questioningly.

"Well, I don't know just how to explain it. It's just something that's come over me all of a sudden. I've a strange feeling that I'm wasting my life there, as if something were closing in on me to cut me off from everything I really want—as though the job itself were a menace to my happiness. I guess it came over me yesterday when your cousin—

"Niece," interrupted Marc.

"—When your niece was in the office. She seemed so gay, so much that I should be, but am not. It seemed only fair to talk to you first, before leaving." Marc glanced nervously toward the bedroom door.

"But what has the agency to do with it?"

"I wish I knew," said Julie. "It's just a feeling that I have."

"But I can't let you go, Julie." The note of urgency crept back into Marc's voice. "And you mustn't envy Toffee. You see, she's just escaping a dull existence herself—and only momentarily. She'll be returning soon. Perhaps right away." A sudden light came into Julie's eyes. "Besides, I know what you feel. I've felt the same thing myself for years. The trouble was that I let myself get used to it and after a time, I didn't know the difference. I'm sure I know how to help myself now and I think that I could help you too—if you'll let me—if you'll stay. Please don't leave, Julie."

As Julie listened to Marc, her expression became softly radiant.

"Perhaps you're right, Marc," she said quietly.

Marc reached out and took her hand in his. Suddenly, from behind the bedroom door, came the soft hiss of a shower. Instantly, Julie drew back.

"Joseph must be back," said Marc quickly.

"Taking a shower?"

"Oh, yes—he often takes showers this time of day. Very clean man. Says cleanliness is next to Godliness, or something of the sort. Very clean—spotless, you might say." Marc began to realize that he was babbling and stopped short.

"Of course," said Julie, smiling. "I should have remembered Joseph. It gave me rather a start, I thought we were alone.

"You'll be back in the morning then?" Marc asked anxiously. "Please say you will."

Julie regarded Marc thoughtfully.

"Yes," she said slowly. "It doesn't seem now that there was ever anything wrong." She turned toward the door.

"Julie—"

"Yes?" She turned, and as she did so Marc caught her in his arms. He kissed her briefly and released her, stepping back embarrassedly. Julie smiled up at him for a moment and then said quickly:

"It's a wonderful job, I wouldn't quit for anything." The door closed softly behind her.

When Toffee entered the living room she found Marc staring out of the window with a curiously foolish grin. She stood beside him for a moment and looked out at the city.

"Go put some clothes on," he said. Toffee was wrapped in a huge towel, draped precariously over one shoulder.

"What for? At this moment, more of me is covered, than at any time since we met."

"Yes I guess so." For a moment they stood silently before the window.

"Toffee—," Marc began.

"Yes, Marc?"

"Why are you here? What is it you want—really?"

"My wish is for you Marc, it has been from the beginning. If I've caused you trouble, perhaps it was because you needed it. I'll be returning soon, but I can't help wanting to linger for a while."

"But how will your return be accomplished?"

"You'll know when the times comes." She smiled up at him. "Maybe it's time I put those clothes on after all." She went into the bed room.

Marc slumped into a chair. In a way he had enjoyed Toffee and her trouble, but now she would be in the way. "You'll know when the time comes," she had said. He was certain that the time had arrived, but he still hadn't any idea about sending her back to the subconscious. Perhaps it would be best to go back to the beginning. How had it started? He reviewed the strange occurrence over and over again. For the fifth time, he went back to the beginning. Suddenly, he brought his fist down on the arm of the chair.

"Of course, that's it," he murmured. "Her father was a Welsh." He laughed shortly. "It's so simple, I should have known all along."

After a time, the bed room door flew open. Toffee was making a grand entrance. As she moved toward him, Marc thought briefly that he had never seen her so beguiling. At the center of the room, she paused.

"Isn't it wonderful? I like it even more than the black one."

"You might say, it leaves everything to be desired," said Marc.

"Oh?"

"—by some young swain," he added.

"Marc there just isn't any hope for you."

"I'd have agreed with you two days ago."

"And now?"

"Who knows?"

"I'm sure I don't."

"That's as it should be." Marc started for the bed room. "I could use a little sprucing up myself." At the door he turned back. "Suppose we make a special occasion of dinner tonight—go somewhere, where the food is especially good? I know a place that serves a wonderful welsh rarebit. I was there just night before last." Toffee's smile immediately disappeared and for a moment her eyes searched Marc's face, which had, suddenly, become quite serious. Her smile reappeared as suddenly as it had faded, but it seemed a bit more set.

"I'm sure I'll love it," she said.

Marc spoke slowly and his voice carried a touch of sadness.

"And remind me to stop by the drug-store for sleeping tablets. I ran out the other night."

"Sure Marc." Toffee looked away toward the window as Marc left the room.

The countryside had somehow reassembled itself—as lovely and serene as before, with a blue mist playing about the trees. Toffee and Marc moved down the hillside toward a small valley obscured by the mist.

"I should be angry with you," said Toffee. "You didn't waste any time in sending me back, once you knew how."

"You said I'd know when the time came."

"How did you find out?"

"I kept wondering where it had all started, and then I remembered that foods sometimes cause certain kinds of dreams. Then too, I remembered that you had said that your father was a Welsh. I didn't have to be clever to put it all together and get welch rarebit, especially since it was the very thing I had eaten the first night. It all seemed pretty silly, but somehow it sort of fitted in with what's happened. You're not angry are you?" He looked down at her affectionately.

"Of course not, Marc. There's something you've forgotten. I exist only in your mind. I am as you see me. If I had stayed longer, if I had come to stand in the way of your happiness, I should have become ugly and wretched. I've served my purpose and it's time for me to return. Really, you haven't so much to do with it as you suppose. It's been a wonderful adventure for me, Marc."

"I'm glad, Toffee," Marc said simply. "I'll never forget what you've done for me."

"Just remember Marc, that I'm not so unlike other, ordinary women. There is none of us who can remain lovely unless she does so in the eyes of a man whom she loves. Be good to Julie."

"You knew about Julie?"

"Of course," laughed Toffee. "I knew from the beginning, before you did. I know more about you than you do yourself. That's another point I hold in common with other women."

They had reached the edge of the valley and suddenly Toffee stopped.

"This is where I have to leave you." She smiled up at Marc. Suddenly, he took her in his arms, very tenderly, and kissed her. As he released her, the bell began to ring in the distance, as it had before.

"Goodbye," Toffee said softly, starting toward the valley.

As she moved, the earth seemed to dissolve behind her, leaving a narrow chasm between them. With each step the bell became more and more distinct. Suddenly, impulsively, Marc turned toward her.

"Wait!" he called, and reached out a hand to her.

Marc's hand fell to the alarm clock and he awakened to a bright, new morning with a vague sense of loss. Suddenly he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and got to his feet.

Julie would be at the office. He didn't want to be late.

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I'LL DREAM OF YOU

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