Folly. She lay in a puzzling, soft glow of light.
Resting high on the pillows, she reached scarcely half-way down the
length of the great bed. For a second they looked at each other
solemnly. Then Leighton's glance passed from her face to the two braids
of hair, down the braids to her bare arms demurely still at her sides,
down her carefully wrapped figure, down, down to her pink toes. Folly
was watching that glance. As it reached her toes, she gave them a quick
wriggle. Leighton jumped as if some one had shot at him, and solemnity
made a bolt through the open windows, hotly pursued by a ripple and a
rumble of laughter.

When Leighton had finished laughing, he sat down in a chair and sighed.
He was trying to figure out just what horse-power it would have taken to
drag him away from Folly at Lewis's age. Where was he going to find the
power? For the first time in many years he trembled before a situation.
He began to talk casually, trying to lead up to the object of his call.
Two things, however, distracted him. One was the puzzling glow of light
that bathed Folly and the bed, the other was Folly herself.

Folly was very polite indeed as far as occasional friendly interjections
went, but as to genuine attention she was distinctly at fault. She did
not look at Leighton while he talked, but held her gaze dreamily on what
would have been the sky above her had not three floors of apartments, a
roof, and several other things intervened.

Finally Leighton exclaimed in exasperation:

"_What_ are you staring at?"

Folly started as though she had just wakened, and turned her eyes on
him.

"You're too far away," she said. "If you really want to talk to me, come
over here." She patted the bed at her side.

Leighton crossed over, and sat on the edge of the bed. Something made
him look up. His jaw dropped. There was a canopy to Folly's bed. It
consisted of one solid sweep of French mirror so limpid that reflection
became reality. It was fringed with tiny veiled lights.

Once more Folly's gay ripple of laughter rang out, but it was
unaccompanied this time. Leighton's fighting blood was up. He stared at
her stolidly.

"Look here," he said, "I _do_ want to talk to you. Put out those cursed
little lights!"

"Oh, dear!" gasped Folly as she switched off the lights, "you're such a
funny man! You make me laugh. Please don't do it any more."

"I won't try any harder than I have so far," said Leighton, grimly.
"This is what I ca