We crashed through it with a perfectly terrific clatter
of breaking glass and landed in a bed of white flowers, all soft
and downy, like feathers.
And then Doctor Z stood up and combed the debris out of his whiskers
and remarked that, taking it by and large, it had been one of the
pleasantest little outings he had enjoyed in the entire course of
his practice. He said that as a patient I was fair, but as a
balloon I was immense. He asked me whether I had seen anything
of his umbrella and began looking round for it. I tried to help
him look, but I was too tired to exert myself much. I told him I
believed I would take a little nap.
I opened a dizzy eye part way. So this was heaven--this white
expanse that swung and swam before my languid gaze? No, it could
not be--it did not smell like heaven. It smelled like a hospital.
It was a hospital. It was my hospital. My nurse was bending over
me and I caught a faint whiff of the starch in the front of her
crisp blue blouse. She was two-headed for the moment, but that
was a mere detail.
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