waiting to give us a final plunge into the seething tank. Again we slide
down to the eyes in the fluid heat, which wraps us closely about until we
tingle with exquisite hot shiverings. Now comes the graceful boy, with
clean, cool, lavendered napkins, which he folds around our waist and wraps
softly about the head. The pattens are put upon our feet, and the brown
arm steadies us gently through the sweating-room and ante-chamber into the
outer hall, where we mount to our couch. We sink gently upon the cool
linen, and the boy covers us with a perfumed sheet. Then, kneeling beside
the couch, he presses the folds of the sheet around us, that it may absorb
the lingering moisture and the limpid perspiration shed by the departing
heat. As fast as the linen becomes damp, he replaces it with fresh,
pressing the folds about us as tenderly as a mother arranges the drapery
of her sleeping babe; for we, though of the stature of a man, are now
infantile in our helpless happiness. Then he takes our passive hand and
warms its palm by the soft friction of his own; after which, moving to the
end of the couch, he lifts our feet upon his lap, and repeats the friction
upon their soles, until the blood comes back to the surface of the body
with a misty glow, like that which steeps the clouds of a summer
afternoon.

We have but one more process to undergo, and the attendant already stands
at the head of our couch. This is the course of passive gymnastics, which
excites so much alarm and resistance in the ignorant Franks. It is only
resistance that is dangerous, completely neutralizing the enjoyment of the
process. Give yourself with a blind submission into the arms of the brown
Fate, and he will lead you to new chambers of delight. He lifts us to a
sitting posture, places himself behind us, and folds his arms around our
body, alternately tightening and relaxing his clasp, as if to test the
elasticity of the ribs. Then seizing one arm, he draws it across the
opposite shoulder, until the joint cracks like a percussion-cap. The