It took some time for him to assure her that she was always
welcome. With time, too, his impression of her grew stronger and more
concrete. He found that he was able to visualize her, as he might
visualize something remembered, or conceived of in imagination--a lovely
young girl, slender and clothed in something loose and filmy, with
flowers in her honey-colored hair, and clear blue eyes, a pert, cheerful
face, a wide, smiling mouth and an impudently up-tilted nose. He
realized that this image was merely a sort of allegorical
representation, his own private object-abstraction from a reality which
his senses could never picture as it existed.
It was about this time that he had begun to call her Dearest. She had
given him no name, and seemed quite satisfied with that one.
"I've been thinking," she said, "I ought to have a name for you, too. Do
you mind if I call you Popsy?"
"Huh?" He had been really startled at that. If he needed any further
proof of Dearest's independent existence, that was it. Never, in the
uttermost depths of his subconscious, would he have been likely to label
himself Popsy.
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