“For doubting you when you said you had a diamond as big as the Ritz-Carlton Hotel.” Percy smiled. “I thought you didn’t believe me. It’s that mountain, you know.” “What mountain?” “The mountain the château rests on. It’s not very big, for a mountain. But except about fifty feet of sod and gravel on top it’s solid diamond. _One_ diamond, one cubic mile without a flaw. Aren’t you listening? Say----” But John T. Unger had again fallen asleep. III Morning. As he awoke he perceived drowsily that the room had at the same moment become dense with sunlight. The ebony panels of one wall had slid aside on a sort of track, leaving his chamber half open to the day. A large negro in a white uniform stood beside his bed. “Good-evening,” muttered John, summoning his brains from the wild places. “Good-morning, sir. Are you ready for your bath, sir? Oh, don’t get up--I’ll put you in, if you’ll just unbutton your pyjamas--there. Thank you, sir.” John lay quietly as his pyjamas were removed--he was amused and delighted; he expected to be lifted like a child by this black Gargantua who was tending him, but nothing of the sort happened; instead he felt the bed tilt up slowly on its side--he began to roll, startled at first, in the direction of the wall, but when he reached the wall its drapery gave way, and sliding two yards farther down a fleecy incline he plumped gently into water the same temperature as his body. He looked about him. The runway or rollway on which he had arrived had folded gently back into place. He had been projected into another chamber and was sitting in a sunken bath with his head just above the level of the floor. All about him, lining the walls of the room and the sides and bottom of the bath itself, was a blue aquarium, and gazing through the crystal surface on which he sat, he could see fish swimming among amber lights and even gliding without curiosity past his outstretched toes, which were separated from them only by the thickness of the crystal. From overhead, sunlight came down through sea-green glass. “I suppose, sir, that you’d like hot rosewater and soapsuds this morning, sir--and perhaps cold salt water to finish.” The negro was standing beside him. “Yes,” agreed John, smiling inanely, “as you please.” Any idea of ordering this bath according to his own meagre standards of living would have been priggish and not a little wicked. The negro pressed a button and a warm rain began to fall, apparently from overhead, but really, so John discovered after a moment, from a fountain arrangement near by. The water turned to a pale rose colour and jets of liquid soap spurted into it from four miniature walrus heads at the corners of the bath. In a moment a dozen little paddle-wheels, fixed to the sides, had churned the mixture into a radiant rainbow of pink foam which enveloped him softly with its delicious lightness, and burst in shining, rosy bubbles here and there about him.