He was rambling in imagination on these terraces, when he heard the cough once more.  Raising himself a little in the bed, he looked about him.

The same room, certainly, but with what unbounded astonishment did he see bottles, and basins, and articles of linen airing by the fire—­all very clean and neat, but quite different from anything he had left there when he went to bed!  The atmosphere too filled with a cool smell of herbs and vinegar; the floor newly sprinkled; the—­the what?—­the Marchioness!

Yes; playing cribbage with herself at the table.  There she sat, intent upon her game, coughing now and then in a subdued manner, as if she feared to disturb him, going through all the mysteries of cribbage as if she had been in full practice from her cradle!

Mr. Swiveller contemplated these things for a short time, then laid his head on the pillow again.

“I’m dreaming,” thought Richard, “that’s clear.  When I went to bed my hands were not made of egg-shells, and now I can almost see through ’em.  If this is not a dream, I have woke up, by mistake, in an Arabian Night instead of a London one.  But I have no doubt I’m asleep.  Not the least.”

Here the small servant had another cough.

“Very remarkable!” thought Mr. Swiveller.  “I never dreamed such a real cough as that before.  There’s another—­and another—­I say!—­I’m dreaming rather fast!

“It’s an Arabian Night; that’s what it is,” said Richard.  “I’m in Damascus or Grand Cairo.  The Marchioness is a Genie and having had a wager with another Genie about who is the handsomest young man alive, and the worthiest to be the husband of the Princess of China, has brought me away, room and all, to compare us together.”

Not feeling quite satisfied with this explanation, Mr. Swiveller determined to take the first opportunity of addressing his companion.  An occasion soon presented itself.  The Marchioness dealt, turned up a knave, and omitted to take the usual advantage, upon which Mr. Swiveller called out as loud as he could—­“Two for his heels!”

The Marchioness jumped up quickly, and clapped her hands.

“Arabian Night certainly,” thought Mr. Swiveller; “they always clap their hands, instead of ringing the bell.  Now for the two thousand black slaves with jars and jewels on their heads!”

It appeared however, that she had only clapped her hands for joy, as directly afterward she began to laugh, and then to cry, declaring, not in choice Arabic, but in familiar English, that she was “so glad she didn’t know what to do.”

“Marchioness,” said Mr. Swiveller, “will you have the goodness to inform me where I shall find my voice; and what has become of my flesh?”

The Marchioness only shook her head mournfully, and cried again, whereupon Mr. Swiveller (being very weak) felt his own eyes affected likewise.

“I begin to infer, Marchioness,” said Richard, after a pause, “that I have been ill.”