“Let us leave him to his precarious pleasures,” Sir Timothy suggested.  “I am free for a few moments.  We will wander round together.”

They found Lady Cynthia and Wilmore, and looked in at the supper-room, where people were waiting now for tables, a babel of sound and gaiety.  The grounds and winter-gardens were crowded.  Their guide led the way to a large apartment on the other side of the hall, from which the sound of music was proceeding.

“My theatre,” he said.  “I wonder what is going on.”

They passed inside.  There was a small stage with steps leading down to the floor, easy-chairs and round tables everywhere, and waiters serving refreshments.  A girl was dancing.  Sir Timothy watched her approvingly.

“Nadia Ellistoff,” he told them.  “She was in the last Russian ballet, and she is waiting now for the rest of the company to start again at Covent Garden.  You see, it is Metzger who plays there.  They improvise.  Rather a wonderful performance, I think.”

They watched her breathlessly, a spirit in grey tulle, with great black eyes now and then half closed.

“It is ‘Wind before Dawn,’” Lady Cynthia whispered.  “I heard him play it two days after he composed it, only there are variations now.  She is the soul of the south wind.”

The curtain went down amidst rapturous applause.  The dancer had left the stage, floating away into some sort of wonderfully-contrived nebulous background.  Within a few moments, the principal comedian of the day was telling stories.  Sir Timothy led them away.

“But how on earth do you get all these people?” Lady Cynthia asked.

“It is arranged for me,” Sir Timothy replied.  “I have an agent who sees to it all.  Every man or woman who is asked to perform, has a credit at Cartier’s for a hundred guineas.  I pay no fees.  They select some little keepsake.”

Margaret laughed softly.

“No wonder they call this place a sort of Arabian Nights!” she declared.

“Well, there isn’t much else for you to see,” Sir Timothy said thoughtfully.  “My gymnasium, which is one of the principal features here, is closed just now for a special performance, of which I will speak in a moment.  The concert hall I see they are using for an overflow dance-room.  What you have seen, with the grounds and the winter-garden, comprises almost everything.”

They moved back through the hall with difficulty.  People were now crowding in.  Lady Cynthia laughed softly.

“Why, it is like a gala night at the Opera, Sir Timothy!” she exclaimed.  “How dare you pretend that this is Bohemia!”

“It has never been I who have described my entertainments,” he reminded her.  “They have been called everything—­orgies, debauches—­everything you can think of.  I have never ventured myself to describe them.”

Their passage was difficult.  Every now and then Sir Timothy was compelled to shake hands with some of his newly-arriving guests.  At last, however, they reached the little sitting-room.  Sir Timothy turned back to Wilmore, who hesitated.