He, too, had lit his pipe and had thrown himself into his favourite chair.

He smiled confidently across at his friend.
"A millionaire with brains," he argued, "is just the one person in the world likely to weary of all ordinary forms of diversion.

I begin to remember things about him already.

Haven't you heard about his wonderful parties down at The Walled House ?" Wilmore struck the table by his side with his clenched fist.
"By George, that's it!" he exclaimed.

"Who hasn't!" "I remember Baker talking about one last year," Francis continued, "never any details, but all kinds of mysterious hints--a sort of mixture between a Roman orgy and a chapter from the 'Arabian Nights'-- singers from Petrograd, dancers from Africa and fighting men from Chicago." "The fellow's magnificent, at any rate," Wilmore remarked.
His host smoked furiously for a moment.
"That's the worst of these multi-millionaires," he declared.