Folly’s bed was a mighty structure.  Like the rest of the furniture, it was of mahogany.  It was a four-poster, but posts would be a misleading term applied to the four fluted pillars that carried the high canopy.  The canopy itself was trimmed with no tassels or hangings except for a single band of thick tapestry brought just low enough to leave the casual observer in doubt as to whether there really was a canopy at all.

Having taken in all the surroundings at a glance, Leighton’s eyes finally fell upon 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.”