I was intoxicated with joy. I was afraid it was too happy to be real, and that I should wake in Buckingham Street presently, and hear Mrs. Crupp clinking the teacups in getting breakfast ready. But Dora sang, and others sang, and Miss Mills sang⁠—about the slumbering echoes in the caverns of Memory; as if she were a hundred years old⁠—and the evening came on; and we had tea, with the kettle boiling gipsy-fashion; and I was still as happy as ever.