Seducing an Angel

/13/

CASSANDRA spent the following morning on Oxford Street. She was not shopping for herself, however. She had asked Mary if she might take Belinda with her in order to buy her a sunbonnet for the summer to replace the quaint hat that had once belonged to a stable boy. She did not offer to buy more clothes for the child. One had to be careful with Mary. She was very proud. She was also very protective of her daughter, whom she adored.

The task was accomplished at the very first shop they entered, and Belinda came out wearing a pretty blue cotton bonnet with a slightly stiffened brim and a frill to shield her neck and shoulders from the rays of the sun. It was tied beneath the chin with sunshine yellow ribbons, which were attached to the bonnet with clusters of tiny artificial buttercups and cornflowers.

Belinda was wide-eyed with the splendor of it and turned when they left the shop to admire her image in the glass.

They strolled along the street, hand in hand, until they stopped outside a toy shop. Soon Belinda's nose was pressed to the glass as she stared silently through it. She showed no visible excitement, no expectation that anything in the window or the shop would ever be hers. She demanded nothing. But she was obviously lost to the world around her.

Cassandra watched her fondly. Just having the chance to stand and gaze was probably enough to make this the high point of Belinda's day. She was a remarkably contented child.

She was gazing, Cassandra realized, not at everything in the window, but at one particular toy – a doll. It was not the largest or fanciest.

Indeed, it was just the opposite. It was a baby doll, made of china and wearing only a simple cotton nightgown as it lay on a white woolen shawl. After gazing and gazing, Belinda lifted one hand and waved her fingers slowly.

Cassandra blinked back tears. As far as she knew, Belinda had no toys.

"I think," she said, "that baby needs a mama."

"Baby." Belinda pressed her hand against the glass.

"Would you like to hold him?" Cassandra asked.

The child's head turned and she gazed up at Cassandra with big, solemn eyes. Slowly she nodded.

"Come, then," Cassandra said, and took the child's hand again and led her inside the shop.

It was a foolish extravagance. She was no longer Lord Merton's mistress, was she? And she had already bought the bonnet. But food and clothing and shelter were not the only necessities of life. Love was too. And if love must cost her some money this morning, then so be it.

It all seemed worthwhile when the shop assistant leaned into the window and lifted out the doll and placed it in Belinda's arms.

Cassandra would not have been surprised to see the child's eyes pop right out of her head. Belinda gazed at the china baby with slightly open mouth and held it stiffly for a few moments before cradling it in her arms and rocking it gently.

"Would you like to take him home and be his mama?" Cassandra asked gently.

Again Belinda's eyes turned upward, and she nodded.

Behind them a smartly dressed little girl was petulantly demanding the doll with the long blond ringlets, not the stupid one with the velvet dress and pelisse. /And/ she needed the baby carriage because the wheels had come off hers. /And/ the skipping rope because the handles on the one she had had for her birthday last week were an ugly green.

The baby doll came without clothes, Cassandra discovered. She bought the nightdress to go with it and then, because Belinda kissed the baby's forehead and promised in a whisper to keep him warm, she bought the blanket too.

She had had no idea children's toys were so expensive.

But as they walked out of the shop she did not regret the extravagance.

Belinda was still virtually speechless. But she did remember something of the persistent teachings of Mary. She looked up at Cassandra, her baby held close in her arms.

"Thank you, my lady," she said.

There was nothing careless about her gratitude. It was heartfelt.

"Well," Cassandra said, "we could not just leave him there without a mama, could we?"

"She is a girl," Belinda said.

"Oh." Cassandra smiled, and looked up into the smiling faces of Lady Carling and the Countess of Sheringford.

"I /thought/ that was you, Lady Paget," Lady Carling said. "I told Margaret it was, and we crossed the road to make sure. What a charming child. Is she yours?"

"Oh, no," Cassandra said. "Her mother is my housekeeper, cook, maid – my everything."

"She is Belinda," the countess said, "and I see that she is wearing her smart new shoes. How do you do, Lady Paget? It looks as if you have a new baby, Belinda. May I see her? /Is/ she a girl?"

Belinda nodded and moved the blanket back from the doll's face.

"Oh, she is lovely," the countess said. "And she looks warm and contented. Does she have a name?"

"Beth," Belinda said.

"That is pretty," the countess said. "Beth is usually short for Elizabeth. Did you know that? But Elizabeth is far too big a name for such a tiny baby. You are wise to call her Beth."

"Margaret and I are on our way to the bakery for a cup of tea," Lady Carling said. "Will you join us, Lady Paget? I am sure there will be at least one cake there to take Belinda's fancy. And surely they serve lemonade."

Cassandra's first instinct was to say no. But it could do her no harm to be seen in public with such ladies. If she could become gradually more and more accepted in society, perhaps eventually she would be able to find some elderly or sickly lady who needed a companion and would trust her enough to employ her. It was not a happy prospect, and she did not know what would happen to Alice and Mary when the time came, but…

Well, it did no harm to accept any olive branch that was freely extended to her.

"Thank you," she said. "Belinda, would you like a cake?"

Belinda, saucer-eyed again, nodded and then remembered her manners.

"Yes, please, my lady," she said.

The ladies sat talking for almost an hour while Belinda sat quietly at the table, first eating the white cake with the pink icing that she had chosen with meticulous care, then holding her cup with both hands to drink the lemonade, and finally wiping her mouth and hands carefully with her linen napkin so that she could rock her doll again. She murmured to it and kissed it as the ladies talked.

"It is a lovely day for your picnic in Richmond," the countess said.

"A picnic?" Lady Carling looked at Cassandra with interest. "How lovely for you. There is no better way to spend a summer afternoon, is there?"

"My former governess, who lives with me, is only forty-two years old,"

Cassandra said. "Far too young to go as far as Richmond for a picnic alone with a gentleman of the same age – or so she believes. When Mr.

Golding came calling yesterday afternoon to ask her to go, she hesitated, though she clearly wanted to say yes. And so Lord Merton offered his services and mine as chaperones."

They all laughed – at the very moment when the Earl of Merton himself and Mr. Huxtable, angel and devil, walked past the bakery window.

Cassandra's heart or stomach – or /something/ – turned over. There was a very young lady on Lord Merton's arm, the one with whom he had danced the opening set at his sister's ball, and his head was bent to listen to what she said. He was smiling down at her.

A young woman who must be her maid was walking a few steps behind them.

It was not jealousy Cassandra felt. It was… Oh, it was the knowledge that she was nominally his mistress, that she had spent two nights with him in her bed, that she had enjoyed the experience far more than she cared to admit, that she had both seen and felt his gorgeous body against hers.

They were thoughts that had no business leaping to mind like this.

He wanted to be her friend.

It was with someone like that very young lady that he belonged. She was laughing at something he said, and he was laughing back at her.

It was with her he belonged. Not with Cassandra. He was youthful and carefree and charming and filled with light.

She ought not to have allowed him to try to turn their failed affair into friendship.

Ah, but he was so…

He was so /lovely/.

"Oh, there are Stephen and Constantine," Lady Sheringford said, and at the same moment Mr. Huxtable saw them and said something to the other two, and they all looked through the window and smiled. Lord Merton raised one hand to wave.

He said something to the young lady, but she shook her head and after another moment or two took her leave and continued on her way, her maid closing the distance to walk beside her. The two gentlemen came into the bakery and approached the table.

"Is /this/ how ladies stay so slender?" Mr. Huxtable asked, one eyebrow cocked in irony.

"No, of course not," Lady Carling said. "It is walking about shopping that does that, Mr. Huxtable. Besides, it is only Belinda who has had a cake. The rest of us have been very good and very selfdenying. Lady Paget, I noticed, did not even put sugar in her tea and only the merest splash of milk. Do pull up two chairs and join us."

But Cassandra was feeling inexplicably breathless. She did not belong in this family group. Besides, it was time to take Belinda home. Mary would be worrying.

"You may have our chairs," she said, standing. "Belinda and I must be going."

Belinda got obediently to her feet, looking up at the Earl of Merton as she did so.

"I got a new doll," she said.

"Is it a doll?" he said, looking astonished. He went down on his haunches beside her. "I thought it was a baby. May I see it?"

"It is a her," she said, drawing the blanket away from the doll's face.

"She is Beth. Elizabeth really, but that is too big a name."

"Beth suits her better," he agreed, touching the side of one finger to the doll's cheek. "She must be very cozy in that blanket with you to rock her. She is fast asleep."

"Yes," she said as he smiled at her.

Cassandra swallowed awkwardly and was convinced that everyone must have heard. There was a look of open tenderness on his face, yet he was an aristocrat looking at a servant's child. Her illegitimate child. It would be /very/ easy indeed to come to care for him, to come to trust him when experience had taught her to trust no man, especially the gentle ones.

Nigel had been gentle…

Lord Merton got to his feet.

"Allow me to walk the two of you home," he said, looking at Cassandra.

How could she say no without causing something of a scene before the interested gaze of Lady Carling and his relatives?

"That is not necessary," she said. "But thank you."

"Do enjoy the picnic this afternoon," the countess said.

"Picnic?" Mr. Huxtable said, his dark gaze locking on Cassandra's. "Am I missing something?"

"Lady Paget's companion is going on a picnic to Richmond with a gentleman friend, Constantine," the countess explained, "and Stephen and Lady Paget are going with them as chaperones."

"Fascinating," he said, his eyes still on Cassandra, his eyebrows raised. "/Chaperones/?"

Cassandra bent to help Belinda wrap the doll more tightly in the blanket. She kissed the child on the cheek and took her free hand in hers. But when they were outside, Belinda stopped, handed the doll to Lord Merton without a by-your-leave, and took his free hand so that she walked between them, attached to each.

He carried the doll in the crook of his arm, meeting the glances of several passersby with a look of sheepish amusement.

It all seemed horribly domestic to Cassandra, almost as if the doll was real and both it and Belinda were her children – or theirs.

Was he genuine after all?

Ah, but how could one possibly know?

Were there such pure beings as angels?

And what was she doing consorting with one if there were?

Alice was excited about this afternoon, though she would not have admitted it even if she were stretched on the rack. Alice had always been a mother figure to Cassandra, more than just a governess and companion. She had always been an emotional rock of stability. During the past ten years she had perhaps kept Cassandra from losing her sanity. But now Cassandra felt guilty over the fact that she had never really thought of Alice as a woman. Alice had been very young – not even twenty – when she first came to live with them. Even when Cassandra married, Alice was only in her early thirties. And yet all these years she had never had a beau, never had a chance for marriage or personal happiness.

Had she loved Mr. Golding all those years ago? Had she had hopes then?

Had she thought of him at all, dreamed of him, perhaps, in the intervening years? Had meeting him again two days ago been a momentous occasion in her life? Was hope now being reborn? Perhaps painfully?

Cassandra felt deeply ashamed that she did not know the answers to any of the questions. But she would do all in her power to see to it that a relationship had a chance to develop now if both parties wanted it and if there was anything she could do to facilitate it short of shamelessly matchmaking.

She looked forward to the picnic for Alice's sake.

Oh, and for her own sake too, she admitted reluctantly as Belinda told Lord Merton that she had a new bonnet and he declared that he had not seen anything more fetching for a long, long time. She ought /not/ to be looking forward to it. She ought not to allow him to befriend her when it was with young ladies like the one he had been with earlier that he belonged. Young ladies without the emotional baggage she dragged along with her.

But since she was committed now to spending the afternoon in his company, she was simply going to enjoy herself.

It seemed an age since she had last done that.

Had she /ever/ done it? Simply enjoyed herself?

He had promised her joy. He had promised her that there was such a thing as joy.

It sounded altogether more precious than happiness.

And more impossible.

But she was going to enjoy herself.

Oh, she /was/.

When they arrived at the house on Portman Street, Belinda stood quietly on the doorstep while Cassandra took the key from beneath the flowerpot beside the steps rather than use the door knocker. She opened the door, and Belinda took her doll carefully from Lord Merton's arm and went streaking off in the direction of the kitchen, shrieking loudly and talking so fast that her words tripped all over one another. But amid the excited jumble, Cassandra did distinguish a few words – pink icing and Beth and buttercups and bonnets and two grand ladies and a white wool blanket and a frill to stop her neck from getting sunburned and a gentleman who had carried Beth without waking her.

Poor Mary must be deafened, Cassandra thought, smiling as she withdrew the key and put it back in its hiding place.

And suddenly a terrible pain smote her, as it did occasionally, always crashing in on her without any prior warning.

She had no living children of her own.

Only four dead babies.

No one to come running to deafen /her/.

She drew a deep breath through her nose and let it out slowly through her mouth before turning to offer her hand to Lord Merton.

"Thank you," she said. "But do you see how extravagant I am, Stephen? Do you see how I have spent your money today?"

"To make a child happy?" he said, raising her hand to his lips. "I cannot for the life of me think of a better use for it, Cass. I will see you this afternoon?"

"Yes," she said, and she stepped inside the house as he went striding off down the street. A man who was charming and amiable and physically perfect. And very, very attractive.

Ah, yes, it would be very easy indeed to care for him as well as to lust after him. And perhaps he was genuine.

Or perhaps not.

She was going to enjoy this afternoon anyway. She had been extravagant with money this morning. She was going to be extravagant with feelings this afternoon.

She had hoarded feelings for so very long.

She was not even sure there were any left inside her to squander.

She would find out later today.

It amused Stephen later in the afternoon to hand Miss Haytor into his open barouche and watch her scurry to seat herself beside Cassandra rather than take the empty seat opposite. Now Stephen had to sit there with Golding. Miss Haytor, he could tell from her rather flustered manner, was very nervous.

Perhaps, he thought, this was the closest she had come to being courted.

It was a sad thought. But – better late than never.

Golding too seemed even more agitated than he had yesterday as he supervised the stowing of his large, very new picnic basket onto the back of the carriage. If the basket was full of food, it would surely feed an army.

Golding, dressed formally and smartly, was almost tongue-tied as the journey began. Miss Haytor, dressed immaculately in a dark blue walking dress and pelisse, was stiff and silent.

Cassandra, looking ravishing in pale spring green with a straw bonnet, seemed as amused as Stephen felt, though he guessed there was no malice in the smile she exchanged with him – as there was none in his.

The burden of conversation, Stephen decided, was going to be his for the time being, anyway. But making conversation had never been difficult for him. Often it was simply a matter of asking pertinent questions.

"You were once a teacher, Golding?" he asked as his barouche picked up speed. "And you and Miss Haytor once taught together?"

"We did, indeed," Golding said. "Miss Haytor was Miss Young's governess, and I was Master Young's tutor. But his need of me lasted all too short a time, and I was forced to move on. I regretted leaving. Miss Haytor was an excellent teacher. I admired her dedication and her well-educated mind."

"I was no more dedicated than you, Mr. Golding," Miss Haytor said, finding her tongue at last. "I once found you in Sir Henry Young's study at midnight, trying to devise a method of teaching Wesley long division that he would understand. And my own education was far inferior to your own."

"Only in the sort of formal education that attendance at university can provide," he said. "At the time you were far more widely read than I, Miss Haytor. You were able to recommend several books that have since become my favorites. I always remember you when I reread them."

"That is kind of you, I am sure," she said. "But you would have discovered them for yourself eventually, I daresay."

"I doubt that," he said. "With so many books waiting to be read, I often do not know where to start and so do not start at all. I would like to hear what you have been reading in the last few years. Perhaps I will be inspired to try something new again that is not merely concerned with politics."

Stephen met Cassandra's eyes. They did not smile openly at each other.

They might have been caught doing so and might have made the other two self-conscious again. But they smiled anyway. He knew she was smiling though her face was in repose. And he knew he was smiling back.

And even if he misinterpreted her expression, at least she was not wearing her habitual mask this afternoon. She had not been wearing it this morning either. Indeed, this morning he had been unwary enough to feel that he could fall in love with her if he allowed himself to do something so foolish. When Con had drawn his attention to the bakery, it was Cassandra he had seen. He had not even noticed Meg and Lady Carling for a few moments. And when he had walked home with her and the child, he had felt…

Well, never mind. They had been foolish feelings.

Stephen had brought only a coachman with him, and Golding had brought no servants of his own, having had a hackney cab drop him and his basket in Portman Street. When they arrived at Richmond Park after a longish drive, then, the gentlemen carried the basket between them while the ladies walked ahead to choose a decent spot for a picnic.

They found one on a grassy slope some distance into the park beneath some of the ancient oaks for which the park was famous, looking down upon lawns and across at rhododendron bushes with more oaks behind them.

In the distance they could see the Pen Ponds, which were always kept well stocked with fish.

A few other people were out strolling, though not very many, and no one else appeared to be picnicking. No one else was up on their slope. As Stephen had hoped, they were to enjoy a quiet, secluded afternoon.

After the two men had set down the basket, Golding opened it and drew out a large blanket – one explanation for the fact that the basket had not been as heavy as Stephen had expected it would be. Golding shook it out and would have spread it on the grass himself, but Miss Haytor hurried to help him, grasping two corners while he held the others. Together they set it down flat, without a wrinkle.

"It is too early for tea," Golding said. "Shall we go for a walk?"

"But someone may make off with the basket and the blanket while we are gone, Mr. Golding," Miss Haytor pointed out.

"Quite right," he said, frowning. "We will not be able to walk far. We will have to keep them in our sight."

"I am quite content to sit here," Cassandra said, "and bask in the sunshine and breathe in the fresh air and drink in the sight of so much green countryside. Why do you not walk with Mr. Golding, Alice, and Lord Merton and I will stay here."

Miss Haytor looked suspiciously at Stephen. He smiled his best smile at her.

"I will protect Lady Paget from harm, ma'am," he said. "The public setting of the park and the other people strolling here will be effective chaperones for both you and her."

She was still not quite convinced, he could see. But her desire to walk – /alone/ – with Golding was being weighed against caution.

"Allie," Cassandra said, "if we have driven all this way merely to stroll together in a tight circle about the picnic basket, we might as well have stayed at home and eaten in the back garden beneath Mary's clothesline."

Miss Haytor was convinced. She went down the slope with Golding and then took his offered arm as they turned in the direction of the distant ponds.

"I believe," Cassandra said, seating herself on the blanket and removing first her gloves and then her bonnet and setting them down beside her,

"I have been incredibly selfish."

"In sending them off walking while we remain here?" he asked.

"In keeping Alice with me all these years," she said. "She started to look for other employment when I accepted Nigel's marriage offer. She even went to one interview and was impressed with both the children and their parents. But I begged her to come with me into the country, at least for a year. I had never lived in the country and was somewhat apprehensive. She came because I was so insistent, and then she stayed, year after year. I thought only of /my/ needs and told her more times than I can count that I did not know how I would live without her."

"It is basic human need to be needed," he said. "She very obviously loves you. I daresay she was quite content to stay with you."

She turned her face toward him. She was sitting with her knees bent, her arms clasped around them.

"You are too kind, Stephen," she said. "She might have met someone to marry years ago, though. She might have been happy."

"And she might not," he said. "Not many governesses are in a position to meet prospective husbands, are they? And her new employers might not have needed her for anything more than imparting a certain body of knowledge to their children. The children might have resented her. She might have been dismissed soon after acquiring the position. Her next one might have been worse. /Anything/ might have happened, in other words."

She was laughing, her face still turned toward him.

"You are quite right," she said. "Perhaps after all I have been saving her for this happy reunion with the love of her life. I think Mr.

Golding may well /be/ that. Today is not for gloom and guilt, is it?

Today is for a picnic. I have always associated that word with pure enjoyment. But there were never any picnics during my marriage. It is strange, that. I did not even realize it until today. I came here to enjoy myself, Stephen."

He sat with one knee raised, the sole of his Hessian boot flat on the blanket, one arm draped over his knee, the other slightly behind him, bracing his weight. They were sitting in the dappled shade offered by the spreading branches of one of the oaks. His hat was on the blanket beside him.

He watched, fascinated, as she lifted her arms, drew the pins from her hair, and shook it free over her shoulders and along her back. She set the pins down on the brim of her bonnet and drew the fingers of both hands through her hair to release any tangles.

"If you have a brush in your reticule," he said, "I will do that for you."

"Will you?" She looked back at him. "But I removed the pins so that I can lie back on the blanket and look at the sky. Perhaps you will brush it later, before I put it back up."

The strange thing was that she was not flirting with him. Neither was she using her siren's voice or eyes. Yet he felt the tension between them like a palpable thing – and doubted she did. She was as he had never seen her before, relaxed and smiling and without artifice.

He was dazzled.

She was far more attractive to him than when she was trying to attract.

She stretched out on the blanket, adjusting her clothes to make sure her dress decently covered her ankles. And she laced her hands behind her head and gazed upward. She sighed with obvious contentment.

"If only we could keep our connection with the earth," she said, "all would be well with our lives. Do you think?"

"Sometimes," he said, "we become so intoxicated by the strange notion that we are lords of all we survey that we forget we are creatures of the earth."

"Just like butterflies," she said, "and robins and kittens."

"And lions and ravens," he said.

"Why is the sky blue?" she asked.

"I have no idea." He grinned down at her, and her eyes turned toward him. "But I am very glad it is. If the sun merely beamed down its light from a black sky, the world would be a gloomier place."

"Just like before a thunderstorm," she said.

"Worse."

"Or like nighttime with a brighter moon. Come down here and look," she said.

He deliberately misunderstood her. He lowered his head over hers and slowly searched her face, his eyes coming to rest finally on her green eyes. They were smiling.

"Very nice indeed," he said. He meant it too.

"Likewise." Her eyes were roaming over his face as well. "Stephen, you are going to have wrinkles at the outer corners of your eyes when you are older, and they are going to make you impossibly attractive."

"When the time comes," he said, "I'll remember that you warned me."

"Will you?" She lifted her hands and set two fingertips lightly over the spots where the wrinkles would be. "Will you remember me?"

"Oh, always," he said.

"And I will remember you," she said. "I will remember that once in my life I met a man who is perfect in every way."

"I am not perfect," he said.

"Allow me to dream," she said. "To me you are perfect. /Today/ you are perfect. I will not know you long enough or intimately enough to learn of your weaknesses and vices, which are doubtless legion. In memory you will always be my perfect angel. Perhaps I will have a medallion made and wear it about my neck."

She smiled.

He did not.

"We will not know each other for long?" he asked her.

She shook her head.

"No, of course not," she said. "But that does not matter, Stephen. There is today, and today is all that matters."

"Yes," he said.

As far as he knew, there were no people walking in sight of them. If there were, they must already be scandalized enough. What difference would it make if he – He kissed her.

And she kissed him back, first cupping his face gently with her palms and then sliding her arms about his neck.

It was a warm, unhurried, quite chaste kiss that did not even involve their tongues. It was the most dangerous kiss Stephen had ever shared.

He knew that as soon as it ended and he lifted his head to look down into her face again.

Because it had been a kiss of shared affection bordering on love. Not lust. /Love/.

"And now," she said, "will you do as I suggested a few minutes ago and come down here and look? Upward? At the sky?"

She spoke softly, without smiling, despite the teasing nature of her words.

He stretched out beside her and looked upward – and knew what she had meant when she spoke of connection to the earth. He could feel it, firm and eternal beneath him despite the thickness of the blanket. And above him he could see the blue, cloudless sky and – connecting the two – the leafy branches of the oak tree.

And he was a part of that connection, that gloriously spinning place, as was Cassandra.

He reached over and took her hand in his. He laced his fingers with hers.

"If you could just step off into the sky," she said, "and be a new person, /would/ you?"

He gave the question some consideration.

"And so lose myself as I know me, and everything and everyone that have helped shape me into the person I am?" he said. "No. But temporary escape would be good now and then. I am greedy and want the best of both worlds, you see. Would you?"

"I can lie here," she said, "and dream of letting go and floating off into blueness and light. But I would have to take myself with me or the whole exercise would be pointless. And so nothing would really be changed, would it? If I had to leave myself behind in order to escape…

Well, I might as well be dead. And I think I would hate that. I want to live."

"I am glad to hear it," he said, chuckling.

"Oh, but you do not understand," she said. "It surprises me. For a long time I have thought that if given the choice without actually having to take my own life, I would choose death."

He felt a sudden chill.

"But you no longer feel that way?" he asked her.

"No," she said. She laughed softly. "No! I want to /live/."

He squeezed her hand more tightly, and they lay together in silence while he pondered what she had just said. What must her life have been like if she would have preferred death to life – and if the preference was so habitual that it actually surprised her now to discover that she preferred life?

Sometimes he forgot – or chose to forget – that her life had been so intolerable that she had killed.

But he would not think of that today.

He turned his head to look at her after a few minutes, and she returned the look. They both smiled.

"Happy?" he asked.

"Mmm."

He sighed and set his free arm over his eyes. He had not stepped out into space, but he had stepped into something new after all. This was not seduction. This was not even simply friendship. This was… He did not know what it was. But he had the feeling his life would never be the same again.

And he was not sure if the thought alarmed him or exhilarated him.

After a few minutes he drifted off into that pleasant state of being asleep and yet half aware too of everything around him.