The Malcontents by C.P. Snow

Stephen woke out of a happy dream. He had gone to sleep at once, and it was the middle of the night, no, later, the cathedral clock was chiming, he hadn't counted, five or six. He had been dreaming of someone, presumably himself, though in his memory, already fading, it didn't look like himself, sitting by the bank of a stream, fishing (which Stephen had not done since he was a child). The bank of the stream was very close to, or subliminally coincided with, the foyer of a luxurious hotel. Curtained, warm, with, as appeared entirely reasonable, bright lights flashing. Flashing in colour as he remembered it, if one dreamed in colour.

The aura of the dream had been of utter tranquillity and bliss. So, when he was first awake, was its afterglow.