"He's not a Swami, he's an artist," Tony said, drawn into a casual
conversation much against his will. "Blondin--I've met him. He has
a studio up on Fifty-ninth Street--goes in for poetry and musical
interpretations and I don't know what else. Now I believe it's
Indian philosophies--I can't bear him, he makes me sick!"

He relapsed into gloomy silence, and Isabelle put into her laugh
something affectionate and soothing.

"He evidently lives by his wits," she suggested, "which is
something you have never had to do!"

Tony scowled again. It was part of his charm for her that he was
the spoiled darling of fortune. Handsome and young, and with no
family ties to restrain him, he had recently come into his own
enormous fortune. Isabelle knew that his New York apartment was
fit for a prince, that his man servant was perfection, that he had
his own pet affectations in the matter of monogrammed linen,
Italian stationery, and specially designed speed cars. His manner
with servants, his ready check book, his easy French, and his
unruffled self-confidence in any imaginable contingency, coupled
with his youth, had strong attraction for a woman conscious of the
financial restrictions of her own early years and the limitations
of her public school education.

"Why don't you go to the club and dress now, and come back and
dine with us?" she said, in an undertone.

"Do you want me?" he asked, sulkily.