Isabelle knew all about Aunt Georgina, and she looked wearily away.  Tony, sighing elaborately, drew upon himself the old lady’s fire.

“Why don’t you go over and join the young people, Mr. Pope?” she asked, pleasantly.  “Isabelle and I can manage very well without a cavalier.  You’re tired, Isabelle—­I can always tell it.  Be glad that you’re too young to know what that means, Mr. Pope.  Go over there—­there’s a chair next to Nina.  What shall we suspect him of, Isabelle—­a quarrel with pretty Miss Allen?—­if he avoids the young people, and looks like such a thunder-cloud.”

Isabelle sighed patiently.

“The Bellamys are coming in for awhile,” she observed, with deliberate irrelevance, “and I hope they’ll bring their Swami—­or whatever he is, with them.  He must be a queer creature.”

“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.

“I’m asking you!”

For answer he stood up, and smiled wistfully down upon her, with a hesitancy she knew well how to interpret in his eyes.  She should not have asked him to dinner; he should not accept her invitation.  Yet he had been longing so thirstily for just that permission, and she had been yearning so to give it!  Happiness came back into both their hearts as he turned to go, and she gave him just a quick touch of a warm little hand in farewell.  At such a moment, when her mood of heroism gave way to melting, Isabelle had a desperate sort of hope that one more concession would not alter the inevitable parting, whenever it came.  This time—­and this time—­ and this time—­must positively be the last.