red intently at Leighton, who stood at ease
in the half-dusk of the hall. When she had quite made out his trim,
well-dressed figure, she decided not to be as haughty as she had at
first intended.

"Miss Delaires," she said, without quite unbending, however, "is not in
to callers at half after ten; she's in her bath."

"I am fortunate," remarked Leighton, coolly. "Will you take her my
card?" He weighted it with a sovereign.

"Oh, sir," said the maid, "it's not fair for me to take it. She won't be
seeing you. I can promise."

"Where shall I wait?" asked Leighton, stepping past her.

"This way, sir."

He was shown into a small, but dainty, sitting-room. The door beyond was
ajar, and before the maid closed it he caught a glimpse of a large
bedroom still in disarray. In the better light the maid glanced at his
face and then at his card.

"What kin are you to Mr. Lewis Leighton, please, sir?" she asked.

"I have every reason to believe that I'm his father," said Leighton,
smiling.

"I should say you had, sir," answered the maid, with a laugh, "if looks
is a guaranty. But even so she won't see you, I'm afraid."

"I don't mind much if she doesn't," said Leighton. "Just to have had
this chat with you makes it a charming morning."

In saying that Miss Delaires was in her bath, the maid had committed an
anachronism. Folly was not in her bath. She had been in her bath over an
hour ago; now she was in her bandages.

Folly's bath-room was not as large as her bedroom, but it was larger
than anything since Rome. To the casual glance, its tiled floor and
walls and its numerous immaculate fittings, nickel-trimmed and
glass-covered, gave the impression of a luxurious private-clinic
theater. Standing well away from one wall was, in fact, a glass
operating-table of the latest and choicest design. A more leisurely
inspection of the room, however, showed this operating-table to be the
only item--if a large-boned Swedish masseuse be omitted--directly
reminiscent of a surgery. All the other glittering appliances, including
an enormous porcelain tub, were subtly allied to the cult of healthy
flesh.

At the moment when the maid entered with Leighton's card, Folly was
virtually indistinguishable. She could only be guessed at in the
mummy-like form extended, but not stretched, if you please, on the
operating-table. Her face, all but a central oval, was held in a thin
mask of kidskin, and her whole body, from neck to peeping pink to