We descended and traversing the theatre which was the main axis of the house, entered a further wing, after passing through a series of doors which opened at a peculiar wave of her hand and closed behind us automatically. I stopped with an exclamation of delight. We were in a thermal bath such as Rome in all its days of aesthetic splendor had never produced. Instead of marble the walls, the floors, the pool were made of the same brilliant glass colored in opalescent tones. The water itself was amethyst shot through with quivering rays of red and violet streamers. The air was delicately perfumed with a scent resembling heliotrope, while the sides of the pool were carpeted with thick rugs of a yielding softness. A female attendant, who for a moment I took for an automaton, rose and bowed at our entrance. Acquilla slipped from the Grecian robe which was her only garment and advanced to the edge of the pool. I hesitated a moment with that sense of modesty which is inherent in the male, but perceiving the complete naturalness of her gesture, I realized quickly that a false show of prudery would render me ridiculous. I gave my toga to Mag, who smiled at me entranced, and followed Acquilla. I now noticed with interest certain physical changes that the scientific evolution had made in the female figure. From the flat waist upward it was the torso of a man, powerfully muscled, broad over the shoulders and flat breasted, due to the fact, as I learned later, that for over two centuries no woman had nursed her own child. For the rest, though she overtopped me by a clear foot, it was the graceful, lithe figure of the young Mercury one sees in medieval art. But my feeling of aesthetic admiration was rudely dispelled. Turning to Mag, who was staring at me with fascinated eyes, Acquilla lifted the lovely golden curls from her head and stood before me absolutely bald. I could not repress an exclamation of dismay. “That is the price women have to pay for the supremacy of their intelligence,” said Acquilla. “What! Science that has worked such miracles has not been able to prevent baldness?” “Those of the Histrionic caste keep theirs much longer,” Acquilla replied, “but we of the Philosophers and Scientists lose ours at fifty.” “For heaven’s sake, how old are you?” I exclaimed bewildered. “Oh, not so old,” Acquilla replied with a touch of asperity. “How old are you?” “Thirty-two.” “Really, if it weren’t for your teeth and hair I should have said a hundred.” I glanced at the perfect lustre of her teeth and shuddered. Was that possible too? But I mastered my fears and replied according to etiquette: “And you look twenty-four.” “I am hardly seventy-six at that.” She extended her hand, took mine and led me into the perfumed pool.