There is, however, a flavor to dreams that this land lacks. Like perfume. Fragnant, but insubstantial. Look to your hands. Solid. Familiar. [He holds up a mitten, in possibly-helpful, possibly-just-weird demonstration.]

I am well-convinced that this is real. And I would beg, ma'am, that even if you do not, that you treat it as such.

[And with that creepy bit of advice dispensed, he addresses her question. Somewhat.]

I was born as human as any other. My name is Randolph Carter. Of Arkham, Massachusetts.