“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 toes, was wrapped closely in bandages soaked with cold cream.  The bath-tub was still half-full of tepid water, from which rose faint exhalations of the latest attar, so delicate that they attained deception, and made one look around instinctively for flowers.

Folly’s big brown eyes seemed to be closed, but in reality they were fixed on a little clock in plain, white porcelain, to match the room, which stood on a glass shelf high on the wall in front of her.  “I’m sure that old clock has stopped,” she cried petulantly to the masseuse.  “Tell me if it’s ticking.”

“Ut’s ticking,” said the masseuse, patiently.  Then she added, as though she were reciting:  “Be mindful.  Youth is a fund that can be saved up like pennies.  The tenure of youth and beauty is determined by the amount and the quality—­”

“Of relaxation,” chanted Folly, breaking in.  “It is not enough that the body be relaxed; wrinkles come from the mind.  Relax your mind even as you relax your fingers and your toes.  Tra-la-la, la-la!” Folly wriggled the free tips of her pink toes.  She felt the maid come in.  “What do you want, Marie?”