There was a great hall for indoor tennis, and there were half a
dozen squash-courts. Montague knew neither of these games, but he
was interested in watching the water-polo in the swimming-tank, and
in studying the appointments of this part of the building. The tank,
with the walls and floor about it, were all of marble; there was a
bronze gallery running about it, from which one might gaze into the
green depths of the water. There were luxurious dressing-rooms for
men and women, with hot and cold needle-baths, steam-rooms with
rubbers in attendance and weighing and lifting machines, electric
machines for producing "violet rays," and electric air-blasts for
the drying of the women's hair.

He watched several games, in which men and women took part; and
later on, when the tennis and other players appeared, he joined them
in a plunge. Afterward, he entered one of the electric elevators and
was escorted to his room, where he found his bag unpacked, and his
evening attire laid out upon the bed.

It was about nine when the party went into the dining-room, which
opened upon a granite terrace and loggia facing the sea. The room
was finished in some rare black wood, the name of which he did not
know; soft radiance suffused it, and the table was lighted by
electric candles set in silver sconces, and veiled by silk shades.
It gleamed with its load of crystal and silver, set off by scattered
groups of orchids and ferns. The repast of the afternoon had been
simply a lunch, it seemed--and now they had an elaborate dinner,
prepared by Robbie Waiting's famous ten-thousand-dollar chef. In
contrast with the uproar of the inn was the cloistral stillness of
this dining-room, where the impassive footmen seemed to move on
padded slippers, and the courses appeared and vanished as if by