The Salt Of The Earth by Fred M. White

It was past six o'clock when Denne closed the door of his private office, and went upstairs to his private apartments. He was giving a big dinner party in the evening, but for the moment he had forgotten all about it. He had had other things to occupy his attention, but now it came back into his mind, and he smiled as he retired to his room to dress. He came down presently, and glanced into the dining-room, a self-satisfied smile crossing his lips as he looked at the table. Everything was in red from the shades of the electric lamps to the masses of flowers. The prevailing note was accentuated by the pale, cream-colored panels on the walls. A servant or two hovered discreetly in the background, probably waiting for the approval of their master. With a word or two of praise he slipped into the salon, where he awaited his guests. One of the first was Vanstone.

"You are a wonderful man," the artist said, as he dropped into a chair. "You are the only rich man I have ever heard of who has a genuine love of art. Most millionaires buy art treasures because its the correct thing. I suppose it is the only way they can get rid of their money. Now, your case is different. I always like to come here early so that I may feast my eyes before those chatterboxes come and spoil everything. By the way, have you thought any more as to what I said to you about Adela Burton?"