spending it. He's decided to live, and he's doing it splendidly.
It's wonderful."

I took notice, although I had never even heard of the man. There were so
very, very many rich men in America. Later I heard much more concerning
him from this same de Shay. Once he had been so far down in the scale
that he had to shine shoes for a living. Once he had walked the streets
of New York in the snow, his shoes cracked and broken, no overcoat, not
even a warm suit. He had come here a penniless emigrant from Russia. Now
he controlled four banks, one trust company, an insurance company, a
fire insurance company, a great real estate venture somewhere, and what
not. Naturally all of this interested me greatly. When are we
indifferent to a rise from nothing to something?

At de Shay's invitation I journeyed up to X----'s studio one Wednesday
afternoon at four, my friend having telephoned me that if I could I must
come at once, that there was an especially interesting crowd already
assembled in the rooms, that I would meet a long list of celebrities.
Two or three opera singers of repute were already there, among them an
Italian singer and sorceress of great beauty, a veritable queen of the
genus adventuress, who was setting the town by the ears not only by her
loveliness but her voice. Her beauty was so remarkable that the Sunday
papers were giving full pages to her face and torso alone. There were to
be several light opera and stage beauties there also, a basso profundo
to sing, writers, artists, poets.

I went. The place and the crowd literally enthralled me. It was so gay,
colorful, thrillful. The host and the guests were really interesting--to
me. Not that it was so marvelous as a studio or that it was so
gorgeously decorated and furnished--it was impressive enough in that
way--but that it was so gracefully and interestingly representative of a
kind of comfort disguised as elegance. The man had everything, or nearly
so--friends, advisors, servants, followers. A somewhat savage and
sybaritic nature, as I saw at once, was here disporting itself in
velvets and silks. The iron hand of power, if it was power, was being
most gracefully and agreeably disguised as the more or less flaccid one
of pleasure and friendship.

My host was not visible at first, but I met a score of people whom I
knew by reputation, and listened to clatter and chatter of the most
approved metropolitan bohemian character. The Italian sorceress was
there, her go