The engineer proposed to divert this body of water to Circle-G Ranch.

Through the nearest mountain side he should drive a tunnel six hundred

feet long, and cross the short and crooked ravine with a thousand

feet of flume to a point where it would be necessary to drive another

tunnel, about two hundred feet in length. This would conduct the

diverted body of water into the long ravine, down which it would flow

to a point six miles above the ranch. Here the engineer purposed to

construct a dam thirty feet high for the purpose of raising the water

to an elevation from which it would flow through a canal or “ditch”, to

the more level portions of the ranch. A rough estimate of the cost of

this project, from headworks to ditch was $300,000.

He returned to Circle-G, told Mr. Griffiths that he had found no float,

but nevertheless liked the neighbourhood and was inclined to buy the

ranch and sell it in small farms to settlers. He would return to Butte

and think it over. If he concluded to buy he would pay a half million

dollars in cash, and, if Mr. Griffiths were agreeable borrow back

$300,000, for improvements, giving a mortgage at seven per cent. on

the forty thousand acres he proposed to make attractive for settlers.

He gave no hint of his irrigation project. Griffiths had known of this

body of water, but it had never occurred to him nor to anyone else to

divert it. He was a stock-grower, pure and simple, with no “modern

notions”, and Gregory had no intention of enlarging his vision. He

would pay the man his price, but he had the ruthlessness of his type.

He had more than one motive for offering to borrow back $300,000 of the

payment money; not only should he need it at once, but he feared, after

Mr. Griffiths’ confidence, and knowing his kind, that the old man would

withdraw in terror at the last moment, preferring the safe monotonies

of his ranch to the unknown responsibilities of a capitalist; like

others he had heard that it is sometimes easier to get money than to

invest it. Gregory told him to think it over and write to the Daly and

Clark Banks in Butte, and to the National Bank of Montana, in Helena,

for information regarding his own standing and financial condition. He

left the entire family in as hopeful a frame of mind as himself.

On confirmation of the report that forty thousand acres could be put

under water by gravity, he should close the deal at once, file a notice

of appropriation for forty thousand miner’s inches of water, and begin

work on the first tunnel. He then intended to lay the matter before

one of the great land selling organisations of Chicago or New York,

proposing that he be paid $1,400,000 for the forty thousand acres of

irrigated land, subject to mortgage; demonstrating that the land so

purchased for thirty-five dollars an acre (or forty-three and a half

dollars including the mortgage) could readily be sold to settlers

for one hundred, if railroad facilities were provided. As a further

inducement, to cover the cost of railroad construction, he would

execute a deed and place it in escrow, as a guarantee and evidence of

good faith, and accompanied by a contract authorising the land selling

company to dispose of the remaining thirty-five thousand acres at ten

dollars an acre. The construction of the railroad would add materially

to the value of the unirrigated land also, and a pledge of this portion

of the property as security that the railroad would be built would be

acceptable, because the estimated cost, with liberal allowances, was

under $350,000.

The sum paid him by the land selling company would, in addition to the

large sum realised by the sale of the live stock, give him at least

$1,600,000, or $1,100,000 over the half million originally invested.

Mark listened with his eyes and mouth wide open.

“By George!” he exclaimed, when Gregory finished. “Did you dope all

that out yourself? That’s the talk of a man who’s been in the land

business for years. How did you ever think of it?”

“What’s a man’s brain given to him for--to turn round in a circle? Do

you find the plan feasible?”

“It’s feasible all right--given a cold half million in hand and brains

behind it--plus imagination. That’s where you win out. You’ll be the

richest man in Montana yet.”

“I intend to be.”

“And the first man born here to make one of the old-time fortunes.”

“I hadn’t thought of that!”

Mark dismissed enthusiasm and put his own astute brain to work.

“The hitch will be with your land selling company. They might be

dazzled, even convinced, but they’re cold-blooded, and they never have

any too much cash on hand. What special line of argument do you propose

to hand out?”

“Several. I didn’t go to the Circle-G Ranch without making certain

investigations beforehand. In the first place Government statistics

prove the productivity of Montana soil without irrigation. I am not the

first to discover that this same soil when irrigated is insured against

crop failure. In the second place a study of the U. S. Government

reclamation projects convinced me that I could, all things being

favourable (such as water supply and gravity), put a large tract of

land under water at a very small cost compared to the cost under the

plan of procedure adopted by the Government. By the plan I have mapped

out I can sell both land and water for less than the cost of water

alone under the Government direction. But I have a final inducement

which I believe will bring the selling company to terms. Those forty

thousand acres when irrigated will be peculiarly adapted to the growing

of seed peas. This is the best soil in the country for peas. Now the

seed houses of the country are in great need of large quantities

of seed peas, and the selling company could easily interest these

concerns to the extent of securing their financial backing. They would

no doubt buy large blocks themselves. Such an opportunity has never

been offered them--forty thousand acres under the ditch, and adequate

railroad service. This will enable the selling company to raise an

initial payment to me of $200,000. And if I guarantee the ditch and the

railroad they are in a position to make the same guarantee to settlers

to whom they may make sales in a retail way. They’ll have no difficulty

getting $100 an acre retail; and the seed houses no doubt would invest

and become real owners, thus saving the profit now paid to farmers who

grow for them under contract. Got it?”

“I get you. But why put all of your own money into the ranch? Ora has

taken something like half a million out of that mine. I could let you

have that.”

“I’ll risk no woman’s money. Of course I shouldn’t put my own in if I

didn’t believe it to be a dead sure thing, but there’s always risk.” He

took a packet of papers from his overcoat pocket. “Here are the option

and abstract of titles. I wish you would examine them. Say nothing of

all this at present--nor for a long time after. I’ll spring it when

I’m ready--which will be after I’ve disposed of the irrigated land.

Will you go out with me when I return to Circle-G? I shall want you to

attend to the details of sale and to the location of the water rights.”

“I’ll go all right. And I’m only living to see what you’ll do next.”

XXIX

Meanwhile the story of the Compton-Amalgamated war was the sensation

not only of Montana but of the entire country. The Butte morning

papers ignored it, but the _Evening Bugle_ reaped a golden harvest.

The editor himself, who was the Montana correspondent of one of the

great New York dailies, made his reputation with the most sensational

“stuff” that had gone from the Northwest since Heinze retired from the

field. The hill swarmed with reporters. Two Eastern newspapers sent

special correspondents to the spot. In less than a fortnight the public

knew all there was to know and far more. Perch of the Devil Mine was

photographed inside and out, and its uncompromising ugliness but added

to its magnetism; which emanated from a “solid hill of metal just below

a thin layer of barren soil.” The general reader, who admired the

colour of copper, conceived that it emerged in solid sheets.

Gregory refused to be interviewed or photographed, but was snapshotted;

and his long sinewy figure and lean dark face, his narrow eyes and

fine mouth, won the championship of every woman partial to the type.

The women’s papers, as well as those run by radicals, socialists, and

conservative men of independent tendencies, advocated his cause against

the wicked trust; nor was there a newspaper in the country, however

capitalised, that resisted the temptation to make him “big news.” To

his unspeakable annoyance he began to receive letters by the score,

most of them from women; but he lost no time employing a secretary

whose duty was to read and burn them. He appreciated his fame very

vaguely, for between his mine and the innumerable details connected

with his new ranch, he had little time to devote to newspapers or his

own sensations. But although personal notoriety was distasteful to him

and reporters a nuisance, he felt more than compensated by the success

of his publicity scheme, and the assurance that it was causing the

enemy unspeakable annoyance and apprehension.

He paid a visit to Chicago after work had begun on the first tunnel,

and spent several days with the interested but cautious officials

of the greatest of the land selling companies. Like all silent men,

when he did talk it was not only to the point, but he used carefully

composed arguments incisively expressed. He indulged in no rhetorical

flights, no enthusiasms, no embellishment of plain facts. He might

have been a mathematician working out an abstract problem in algebra;

and this attitude, combined with his reputation as a “winner”, and the

details of his cautious purchase of Circle-G Ranch, finally impressed

the company to the extent of sending one of their number, who was an

expert in land values, to the ranch. Gregory accompanied him, took him

to the mountain river, showed him the engineer’s report, pointed out

the undeviating slope between the river and the ranch, and the land’s

rich chocolate brown soil of unlimited depth. The upshot was that the

expert returned to Chicago almost as enthusiastic as if the original

scheme were his. After consultation with several of the seed houses,

the land company agreed to buy on Compton’s terms, and to pay $200,000

down, $500,000 at the end of sixty days, and $700,000 at the end of

four months.

* * * * *

Ora and Ida had asked for an extension of leave, as they had not

yet “done” Italy, Spain, and Egypt, and both husbands had given a

willing consent; Gregory from sheer indifference; Mark because he was

so busy that he no longer had time to miss his wife. He refused to

give Ora’s picture to the enterprising correspondents, but they found

no difficulty with the local photographer. They had not been long

uncovering the romantic history of the Oro Fino Primo Mine, and it made

a welcome pendant to the still recourseful “story” of Perch of the

Devil. Ora’s beauty, accomplishments, charm, family history, as well

as her present social progress in company with her “equally beautiful

friend”, the wife of the hero of the hour, became public property.

Altogether, Butte, after several years of oblivion, was happy and

excited. So far, although mineralogically the most sensational state

in the Union, and the third in size, she had given to the world but

four highly specialized individuals: Marcus Daly, perhaps the greatest

mine manager and ore wizard of our time; W. A. Clark, who accumulated

millions as a moving picture show rolls in dimes; F. Augustus Heinze,

who should be the greatest financial power in America if brains

were all; and the Sapphic, coruscatic, imperishable Mary McLane. An

outstanding quartette. But Daly was dead, Clark was but one of many

millionaires, submerged in New York, Heinze was reaping the whirlwind,

and the poet was nursing her wounds. Montana was in the mood for a new

hero, and the American press for a new and picturesque subject to “play

up for all he was worth.”

XXX

Ora and Ida were sitting at one of the little round tables in the

pretty green and wicker smoking-room of the Hotel Bristol in Genoa,

drinking their coffee and smoking their after-luncheon cigarettes, when

Ida, who was glancing over the _Herald_, cried,

“Aw!”

Ora looked round in surprise. Ida often relieved the strain when they

were alone by relapsing into the vernacular, but was impressively

elegant in public.

“What is it?” she asked apprehensively. “Anybody we know dead? That is

about all the news we ever get in these Continental----”

“Dead nothing. Greg’s struck a bigger bonanza than I had any idea

of, and Amalgamated is after it. They tried to corral your mine for

delinquent taxes, but got left. Found a bit of unclaimed land between

your claim and the ranch and staked off. They’re sinking a shaft and

mean to prove that the vein--Greg’s--apexes in their claim. Wouldn’t

that come and get you! Just listen.” And she read aloud an embellished

but not untruthful tale. “Glory, I hope they don’t get him! That would

be the end of all my fond dreams.”

“I have an idea that Mr. Compton was born to win. At all events you

have your new house in Butte, and all the money you can spend for the

present.”

“Yes, but I want money to spend in Butte, live in that house, and make

things hum. However, I guess you’re right. I’ll bet on Greg. Here come

the letters. Hope you get one from Mark as I’d like some real news.”

A page with letters in his hand had entered the room. He served the

young American ladies first as their tips were frequent and munificent,

particularly Ora’s. The other people in the room were English and

Italian.

Ida’s letters were from Ruby and Pearl. Ora’s from Mark, Professor

Becke, and two of her English friends. She opened her husband’s first.

It contained an account of the threatened loss of her mine, her narrow

escape, and Gregory’s rescue. It was graphically written. Mark fancied

himself as a letter writer and never was averse from impressing his

clever wife.

Ora’s face flushed as she read; she lost her breath once or twice.

She pictured every expression of Gregory’s eyes as he perforated the

clerk; her heart hammered its admiration. She was too thoroughly

Montanan and the daughter of her father to be horrified at bribery and

corruption. For the moment she forgot gratitude in her exultation that

he had triumphed over the mightiest trust in the country. But before

she finished the letter she sighed and set her lips. She handed it

deliberately to Ida.

“Here is an account of the first development,” she said casually. “It

will interest you.”

Ida read the letter hastily. “Well, they caught him napping after all,”

she said with profound dissatisfaction. “He dreams too much, that’s

what. He’s got a practical side all right, but he isn’t on the job all

the time. I’d like to write and tell him what I think of him but guess

I’d better keep my mouth shut.”

“It was Mark’s fault as much as Mr. Compton’s--more. He should have had

a new map made of my claim; or, if he did have one made, he should have

studied it more carefully. Anybody to look at it would assume that it

touched the boundary line of your--Mr. Compton’s ranch.”

“Well, Greg’ll get out of it some way. When he does sit up and take

notice he doesn’t so much as wink, and so far as he knew or cared the

rest of the world might have waltzed off into space. Lucky it hit him

to buy the house and send that last five thousand before he snapped

close on Amalgamated----”

“What does Miss Miller have to say?”

“Nothing much but ecstasies over my house. The Murphys had taste, it

seems, so I won’t have to do a thing to it. Say, Ora, don’t you feel as

if you’d like to go back?”

Ora looked up and her face turned white. “Go back? I thought you wanted

to stay over here for a year, at least. We haven’t half seen Europe

yet--to say nothing of Egypt.”

“Yes--I know--but sometimes I feel homesick. It isn’t only that I want

to make Butte sit up; but--well, I suppose you’ll laugh, but I miss

the mountains. I never thought much about them when I was there, but

they’ve kind of haunted me lately.”

“There are mountains in Europe.”

“I know, but they’re just scenery. Our mountains are different.”

Ora looked at her speculatively. It was not the first time that Ida

had surprised her with glow-worms flitting across her spiritual night,

although she seemed to be so devoid of imagination, or what she would

have called superfluous nonsense, as to inspire her more highly

organised friend with envy. Her mental and artistic development had

been rapid and remarkable but uneven. She yawned through the opera and

symphony concerts. She would always be bored by pictures unless she

could read a “story” in them, although she had now mastered the jargon

of art as well as most of her quick-witted country-women. In Florence

and Rome she had “struck” after one morning of picture galleries, but

she showed a spontaneous and curious appreciation of the architecture

of the Renaissance. Ora had expected the usual ecstasies over the old

castles of England and Germany, but although Ida admired them heartily,

and even declared they made her feel “real romantic,” it was for the

Renaissance palaces of France and of the cities they visited in Italy

that she reserved her instant and critical admiration. Ora, who like

most imaginative people played with the theory of reincarnation, amused

herself visioning Ida in Burne-Jones costumes, haunting the chill

midnight corridors of a Florentine palace, dagger in hand, or brewing

a poisoned bowl. If Ida possessed a rudimentary soul, which suffered

a birth-pang now and then, Ora had caught more than one glimpse of a

savage temper combined with a cunning that under her present advantages

was rapidly developing into subtlety. But Ida indulged too little in

introspection to develop her inmost ego other than automatically. To

mental progress she was willing to devote a certain amount of labour.

Whenever they were not on a train or visiting at country houses, she

spent an hour every morning with a teacher of either French or Italian;

German she had refused to “tackle,” but, to use her own phrase, she

“ate up” the Latin languages, and her diction was remarkably good. If

picture galleries replete with saints, virgins, madonnas and Venuses

bored her, she returned more than once to the portrait rooms in the

Pitti and the Uffizi galleries, haunted the museums with their mediæval

and Renaissance furniture and tapestries, and eagerly visited every

palace to which the public was admitted.

And she proved herself as adaptable as Ora had hoped. In England she

bored her way through the newspapers until she was able to sustain her

part in political conversation. She soon discerned that English people

of assured position and wide social experience liked a certain degree

of picturesque Americanism when it was unaccompanied by garrulity

or blatant ill-breeding. She amused herself by “giving them what

they wanted,” and was a more pronounced success than Ora, who was

outwardly too much like themselves, yet lacking the matchless fortune

of English birth. But this did not disturb Ora, who made more real

friends, and derived endless amusement observing Ida. On one occasion

they visited for a week at one of the country homes of a duke and

duchess that had entertained Mrs. Stratton many years ago, and Ida had

enchanted these bored but liberal products of a nation that led with

too much indifference the Grand March of Civilisation with her Western

“breeziness” and terminology (carefully selected), combined with her

severely cut and altogether admirable gowns, and her fine imposing

carriage. From this castle she went on with Ora to one leased by an

ambitious American more English than the English, who permitted herself

to indulge in a very little fashionable slang, but had consigned the

American vernacular to oblivion in the grave of her ancestors. Here Ida

was languid and correct (save at the midnight hour when she sought Ora,

not only for relaxation but the instructions she was never too proud to

receive); her English slang (which she had “swapped” for much of her

own with her various British admirers) was impeccable, and she flirted

like a stage duchess.

She estimated the various aristocracies she entered under Ora’s wing

as a grand moving picture show run for the benefit of Americans, and

was grateful to have an inside seat, although nothing would have bored

her more than to take a permanent position in their midst. With their

history, traditions, psychology, she concerned herself not at all; nor

did she in any way manifest a desire to cultivate the intellectual

parts of her shrewd, observing, clutching brain. She threw away as many

opportunities as she devoured, but on the whole proved herself somewhat

more adaptable than the usual American woman elevated suddenly from the

humbler walks of life to the raking searchlights of Society. In Berlin

and Vienna she repeated her social triumphs, for, although Americans

do not penetrate far below the crust of Continental society, smart

men abound in the crust; Ida graduated as an adept in flirtation with

agreeable and subtle men of the world, yet keeping the most practical

at arm’s length with a carefully calculated Western directness and

artlessness that amounted to genius.

In France and Italy the dazzling fairness of Ora had its innings. A

vague suggestion of unreality, almost morbid, and a very definite one

of unawakened womanhood, combined with a cultivated mind, ready wit,

and air of high breeding, gave her a success as genuine as Ida’s and

somewhat more perilous. But she soon learned to tread warily, after her

theories of European men had been vindicated by personal experience.

In fact, after the two girls had ceased to be mere tourists they had

taken the advice of one of Mrs. Stratton’s friends and enlisted the

services of an indigent lady of title as chaperon. Lady Gower had been

little more than a figurehead but had served her purpose in averting

gossip; and now that her charges were tourists again had returned to

her lodgings in Belgravia. As maids also are a doubtful luxury when

travelling they had recently dismissed the last of a long line.

On the whole the two girls had got on together amazingly well. They had

had their differences of opinion, but Ora was too proud to quarrel,

Ida too easy-going and appreciative of the butter on her bread. It was

fortunate, however, that Gregory had been able to provide his wife

with an abundance of money, for she was far too shrewd, and far too

interested in prices, to remain hoodwinked for long. After three months

of sight-seeing and _pensions_ both had been glad to leave the tourist

class and mingle in the more spectacular life of the great world, and

that had meant trousseaux in Paris. There Ida had “gowned” herself

for the first time, and her delight in her fashionable wardrobe had

been equalled only by her satisfaction in driving a bargain. At present

they were resting in Genoa, a favourite city of Ora’s, after a hard ten

weeks in Rome.

XXXI

They finished their letters and went up to their rooms to rest, for

they had “done” several churches and the Campo Santo during the morning.

“Thank the lord,” said Ida, as they walked up the stairs after waiting

ten minutes for the lift, “there are no picture galleries in this

town that one _must_ see. The rest of the programme is streets and

architecture, which is worth while. These internal streets make me feel

as if I were going right through to China, or whatever is underneath

Italy. Genoa, before it had any houses on it, must have looked like

Last Chance Gulch, Helena, Montana.”

They had reached their connecting rooms. Ida extended herself on a

sofa, Ora made herself as comfortable as possible in a chair and lit a

cigarette.

“Say, kid,” pursued Ida, “you smoke too much. Follow my illustrious

example. I go just so far and no farther--one cigarette after each meal

because it makes me feel nice and aristocratic. You’re the kind that

lets a habit run away with you. I deliberate. You drift. See?”

Ora laughed. “Funny thing, nature! Anyone would say quite the opposite

of each of us.”

“It’s like life. Not a blooming thing is just what you figure it out

beforehand. Here I wanted the Collins house and I’ve got the Murphy.

And Greg, that I figured on being a millionaire by the time I got back,

has gone and tied himself up in litigation, or is heading that way.”

“You ungrateful wretch! You came to Europe ‘figuring’ on making a

thousand dollars serve for the entire trip and you already have had

eleven thousand. Most rules work both ways. But you don’t really want

to go back?”

“I do. It’s been growing for some time and now it’s ingrowing. You can

get enough of anything and I’ve had enough of Europe. Besides, I’d

like to get back to a country where lifts are elevators and don’t go

to sleep a few times on the way up; where it doesn’t take an hour to

draw a bath, which it does wherever it’s pronounced băth; where you can

drink plain water, and don’t have cheese or garlic or grease in all

your food; where you are never taken for what you ain’t; where you are

never cheated and overcharged because you’re an American; where you

don’t have to see a sight a minute; where you don’t have to talk up to

people who don’t give a hang about anything that interests you; where

you are not looked upon as a rank outsider by ancient aristocrats and

concierges, no matter how polite they try to be; and where the word

democracy means what it is. Over here every socialist--I’ll bet every

anarchist--would give his front teeth to be a king, a duke, or even

a rich bourgeois. That’s what’s the matter with all of them. Give me

America, above all, old Montana. A little money and a lot of ‘go’ are

all you need out there.”

“Oh, Ida! Ida! will you never appreciate the glory of Europe? Is that

all you have got out of it?”

“I’ve squeezed it dry, all right, and I’ll take back a lot more than

I figured on. Watch me when I’m swelling round Butte, imitating the

chaste simplicity of a British duchess--minus the duds they generally

sport. There’s nothing like Europe to teach you what’s what--especially

the way we’ve seen it--put you wise in ten thousand different ways, and

fill your mind with pretty pictures--that ain’t in galleries. But after

all it’s just a course in the higher education, and you’re outside

of it all, every minute. To live you’ve got to go back to your own

country.”

“That’s true enough!”

“Could you marry a European and live over here for the rest of your

life and never see those mountains again that just seem to belong to

you--or even screaming old Butte?”

“No!” Ora spoke with uncommon vehemence. “I couldn’t!”

Ida raised herself on her elbow and looked at her friend shrewdly. “I

can’t see that you’ve enjoyed yourself so much over here. It seems to

me that you’ve got your fun out of showing me round. You had more real

gaiety in you in Butte. You may not know it but you look pretty sad

sometimes.”

“Life is sad--mighty sad.”

“Is it? That’s a new one for me. I think it a pretty fine old

proposition. What went wrong with you--early in the game?”

“Nothing. Travel is tiring, I’m not as strong as you are.”

“You’re as tough as a pine knot, for all you look like a lily expecting

to be decapitated by the first wind. Well, you won’t tell if you won’t,

but I’ll tell you what you need. You’ve never been in love and that’s

a sort of ache in women until they’ve taken a good dose of the only

medicine. I rather hoped you’d met your fate in the Marchese Valdobia.

He’s the sort you once told me was your type, and you seemed to like

him pretty well for about five weeks in Rome. The lord knows he was

tall enough, and dark enough, and thin enough, and looked as if he had

a beastly temper besides. Then you turned him down good and hard. I was

sorry----”

“My dear Ida! Are you regretting that I did not have a liaison with

Valdobia? I remember your virtuous sentiments in Butte. Perhaps it is

time for us to return!”

“Oh, I’m all right. But I’m that advanced I wouldn’t mind you having an

affair the least bit if it would make you happy----”

“Happy! What happiness do you imagine there can be when you are

absolutely at the mercy of a man?--when you never know whether you will

see him again or not?--a woman has no real hold on a lover. Matrimony

with the man you love may have its agonies, but at least you live with

him, you make his home; his interests are yours, he is dependent upon

you for comfort and sympathy; there are a thousand ways in which you

can endear and enchain him. But a lover, whom you meet in secret for

one purpose only, who can give you no real companionship--oh, no! I

shall not court that particular form of suffering. Life is hard enough

without that! I’ve known women with lovers and so have you.”

“I don’t say it would last forever; nothing does, for that matter. But

at least you would live for a little while--come down off the unearthly

plane you roost on now. Whatever you went through, it would leave you

all-round developed and philosophical--in a frame of mind to see and

accept life as it is. You need hardening. I was born hard. You’re as

soft as mush, for all you look like those marble bores in the Vatican,

and as romantic as if you’d spent all your life in a castle in a wood

with the drawbridge up. I believe you even keep a diary----”

“Diary----” Ora sat up straight.

“I’ve seen and heard you writing by the yard, late at night, mostly. It

wasn’t letters, because we always get those off our chest just after

breakfast--fine system. Unless you’re a budding author----”

“They were letters!” Ora, who was strung up to a high pitch and merely

smoking for relief, felt a defiant impulse to indulge in the impudence

of confession. “I’ve written yards and yards of letters to a man----”

“What? And you don’t send them off!”

“I don’t know him.”

“Good lord, what next? An ideal, I suppose.”

“Yes--that’s it.”

“Do you mean you never saw him--anyone to suggest him--it? What gender

has an ideal, anyhow?”

“I saw him--talked with him, once. I said I didn’t know him.”

“And you’re in love with him!”

“Not in the least. He simply jolted my imagination, gave me the idea of

what might be--have been. I--it is hard to express--I feel in a sort

of mental--spiritual?--affinity with him. When I write I have a queer

sense of absolute communion--as if we were talking--I suppose it is

because I know he would understand if I could send the letters----”

“And you’ve never sent one?”

“Of course not. It is--well, just a little private one-sided drama I’m

living; a sort of book of which I am the heroine. While I write I am

alive. The rest of the time I wonder what I was put on this earth at

all for.”

“Look at here, Ora, the best thing we can do is to send for old Gower

and go back to Rome. You’ll be having nerves first thing you know.

No, we’d cut out the annex. I’m dead sick of her, and everybody knows

we’re all right; in Rome they don’t care, anyhow. You could have a real

romance. We’d take one of those old palaces, haunted, moth-eaten, with

one of those antique porters that looks as if he’d let out midnight

lovers ten centuries ago, and beds that twenty centuries have died in.

That would just suit you. I’d enjoy a second-hand romance first rate,

and be the trusted friend.”

“Ida, you are incorrigible! Even if I cared a penny about Valdobia do

you suppose I would betray my husband?”

“Rats! Don’t you suppose Mark has a girl down on The Flat? Greg has,

I’ll bet--well, don’t look as if you were going to faint. What’s the

use of being a dog in the manger? Mark’ll be the same old devoted when

you get back.”

“Oh, do keep quiet! And I wish I might never see Butte again. I think

I’ll write to Mark and ask him to move to New York. He now has plenty

of money to wait, and it wouldn’t take him long to establish himself

anywhere----”

“I thought you loved Montana--wanted to do something big for her----”

“We’ve been away a long time. I fancy I’m weaned. It is only once in a

while that I feel a pull--merely because I was born there.”

“Well, Mark won’t leave, believe me. He’s Western from the cut of his

back hair to his love of the free-and-easy. No New York for him except

the all-night two or three times a year. Butte’s your fate unless you

leave him.”

“I’ll never do that, but I’d like to stay over here for another year

or two. Remember, I was brought up in Europe--and--and--I _might_ meet

the man--If you want to know I’ve tried. I’d never go as far as you

suggest, but I could get something--companionship, perhaps, out of it.”

“When you meet the man you’ll forget all you ever knew, and men don’t

companion for a cent when there’s nothing in it. I haven’t been turning

them inside out these last six months for nothing; what I don’t

know about men wouldn’t fill a thimble. Why don’t you round up your

letter-man?”

“That is forever impossible.”

“Do give me a hint who he is. I’m half dead with curiosity. Where’d you

meet him?”

“Keep quiet. I’m going to take a nap.”

“Well,” said Ida, yawning and stretching herself, “so am I, if you’ve

closed up. When we get back to Butte and there’s no more sight-seeing

on, we’ll have to cut out these siestas or we’ll get fat, and then

good-bye.”

XXXII

They went out at half-past five and joined the dense sauntering throng

under the arcade of the Via Venti Settembre. All Genoa turns out at

this hour with apparently no object but to amble and stare. The two

girls, particularly Ora, who appeared to be the only blonde in the

city, were almost mobbed. Every other man spoke to them, or rolled

his eyes and twirled his moustache. But they preserved a lofty and

blank demeanour, and were practically unmolested. The Genoese works

almost as hard as the American during a few hours of the day and haunts

the afternoon throngs only to amuse himself indolently. If one woman

ignores him he passes on philosophically to the next.

“Lord, but I’d like to get a move on!” exclaimed Ida. “Why don’t they

_walk_? Is this what they call exercise? And I wouldn’t mind their

ogling and speaking if they only wouldn’t pinch. I’ll give this side a

rest, anyhow.” And she dexterously changed places and drew Ora’s other

arm through her own.

“I love them, pinches and all,” said Ora, warmly. “They are like

children in one way, and yet they really know how to rest and enjoy

themselves, which is more than our men ever do. Even the working-class

enjoys life over here. I wonder why they emigrate?”

They had passed round the corner of the arcade and entered the Piazza

Defarrari, working their way toward the Via Roma. Ora stopped before

one of the cantinas behind the statue of Garibaldi. “Look at those men

drinking their cheap wine and gossipping. They look as if they hadn’t a

care in the world.”

“Give me the hustling American,” said Ida contemptuously. “I don’t call

this life. They’re just drifting along waiting for the Angel Gabriel

to blow his trump. What makes them so lazy and contented? They know

they can go just so far over here and no farther. Ancient history made

classes and masses, and while they have fun, some of them, thinking

they’re socialists, they know that most of them will stay put. But the

only real fun in life is getting ahead of the next fellow and knowing

that your chance is as good as any.”

“What a truly American sentiment!”

“I’m American, all right, and that’s the reason I want to get back to

Butte, where things hum every minute, and there’s no real poverty.

Fancy calling these left-overs ‘middle-class’ like our miners. Every

one of those looks forward to being President of Amalgamated one of

these days, or striking it rich in the mountains.”

“There are different varieties of happiness, fortunately for several

billions that are seeking it.”

“Do you know,” said Ida, abruptly, as they turned into the Galleria

Mazzini from the Via Roma, “it’s queer, but I feel more at home in

Italy than I have anywhere else over here, although I had a really

better time in England and Germany and Austria. I don’t hit it off much

with Italians, but--well--I have a more settled-down feeling.”

“That’s odd!”

“Why?”

“Oh, I’ve been romancing about you a bit, fancying you a reincarnation

of one of those fascinating abominable women of the Renaissance, who

had innumerable lovers and poisoned their husbands, or rivals. You

would look quite wonderful in those long velvet or brocaded gowns, with

sleeves that come down over the hands, and pearls twined in your hair.”

“That’s not a bad idea. Maybe I was, although I don’t see myself

with lovers or thinking anybody worth swinging for. Several American

reincarnations must have changed my habits; but I don’t mind looking

the part. Good idea--when we get back to Paris I’ll have several of

those Renaissance costumes made. They won’t go out of style, either.

Greg can fork over the pearls later.”

“You’ll be a picture. I wish I had thought of it before. Don’t you

think you are capable of jealousy?”

“Nixie. To be jealous you’ve got to have a fearful crush; and thank the

lord I don’t love anybody but myself and never shall.”

“That is often the secret of love for some man--of most men’s love for

a woman, I imagine! Perhaps it creates the most powerful delusion of

all.”

“Well, none of it in mine. Me for the great society act. I’m going to

be the grandest dame in Montana, and when I’ve wrung that dry I’ll move

on to New York. Greg says he won’t, means to live and die in Montana,

but I guess he’ll manage to stand it if I desert him occasionally.

If he’s got a hill full of copper he won’t know whether I’m in Butte

or the Waldorf-Astoria. You look better, Ora; you ought to stay out

of doors more and watch these funny old crowds. You’ve got a nice

colour, and smile as if you meant it--Oh! that’s it, is it? Well, thank

goodness, I’ve got a front seat----”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Pretending you haven’t seen him? I like that!”

Ida felt the arm within her own stiffen. “Valdobia! Don’t leave me for

a moment.”

“I won’t, although, believe me, the rôle of gooseberry is no cinch.”

“I’ve played it for you often enough.”

“You have, and I’m a dead game sport. Lord! he looks more bad-tempered

than ever. Probably every meal he’s eaten since you left has disagreed

with him, including macaroni.”

“He’s not bad-tempered. Hot-tempered, no doubt, but I’m sure he’s kind

and quite amiable. He’s rather grim, and of course he’s lived pretty

hard and is disillusioned. That is all.”

“That’s right, stand up for him. Bad sign--or a good one! He’s seen us!”

Valdobia’s eyes flashed recognition, although he lifted his hat with

unsmiling lips, and made no effort to push his way through the crowd.

Ora favoured him with a glance of chill indifference as she returned

his salutation, but she noticed that he made the young Genoese

patricians look provincial. He not only was tall and gracefully built,

his carriage military, but he had the air of repose and distinction,

as well as the keen, tolerant, detached glance, of the man who has

spent his life in the great world, and, on the whole, subordinated

his weaknesses to his brain. It was evident that he was dressed from

Conduit Street, and at first glance, in spite of his dark colouring

and fine Roman features, his nationality was not obtrusive; he looked

the cosmopolitan, the man-of-the-world, who might have made his

headquarters in any one of her great capitals. As a matter of fact,

while in the diplomatic service he had lived in several, including a

short sojourn in Washington; but after coming into a large inheritance

through the death of his father and of an energetic uncle who had

boldly gone into business and prospered, he had travelled for a year in

Africa and India and then settled in Rome.

If he was too indifferent or too wise to hurry he managed to make his

way consistently toward them, although a crowd had formed about a

bulletin board to read the latest news from the seat of war. He stood

opposite them in three or four minutes and shook hands politely with

both.

“At last!” he said. “I called at the Bristol, and have been looking

for you ever since.” He had a warm deep voice but his tones and manner

expressed less than his words.

“You don’t have to look far in Genoa,” said Ida, giving him a cordial

smile and handshake to cover Ora’s chilling welcome. “If the whole town

turns out for what it calls exercise, each quarter seems to keep to

itself. We see the same faces every day.”

Valdobia fell into step beside Ida, who at once began to chatter

questions about their common acquaintance in Rome. She grinned mentally

as she rattled off titles, recalling the wiry little figure of her

mother at the wash-tub, and her father with his “muck”-spattered

overalls and blue dinner pail; but Valdobia, too accustomed to titles

to note whether Americans were lavish in their use or not, replied

naturally and refrained from glancing at the woman who had given his

self-centred ego the profoundest shock it had ever received. He was

now thirty-eight. In his early manhood he had loved with the facility

and brevity of his race. Then for six years, after his return to Rome,

he had been the lover of a brilliant and subtle woman ten years older

than himself, who, for a short time, inspired in him the belief that

at last he had entered the equatorial region of the _grande passion_.

This passed off, and she became a habit, which lasted until, with

the decline of her beauty, she lost much of her finesse, as well as

her control over both temper and complexion. It had taken him a year

or more to regain his liberty, and when he did, after scenes that

he fain would dismiss from his memory, he determined to keep it. His

long experience with a woman of many characteristics and one or two

noble qualities, before she gossipped and inflamed them to death, had

thoroughly disillusioned him, and since his release his gallantries

had been lighter than in his youth. When he first met Ora Blake he was

attracted merely by her cold fairness, redeemed from classic severity

by her brilliant seeing eyes, which so often sparkled with humour, and

amused at her naïve and girlish attitude of happiness in temporary

freedom; so successfully practised by herself and Ida. He had supposed

her to be little more than twenty, and had wondered if her husband

were even busier than the average American, to let her run away so

soon. When she told him she was twenty-seven, and had been married

seven years, he found himself speculating on the temperament of a woman

whom time and life had left untouched. Shortly after, he received a

biographical sketch of her from Mrs. O’Neil, also of Butte, who was

wintering in Rome and entertaining such of the aristocracy as she met

at her Embassy. It was some time since his thoughts had dwelt upon

any woman when alone, and when he found himself sitting by his window

in the evening dreaming over his cigar instead of amusing himself in

the varied life of Rome after his habit, he was at first amused, then

angry, finally apprehensive. He had no desire for another period of

torment, followed by the successive stages that finished in impatience

and satiety.

He tried flirting with her, making her talk about herself, focussing

her mind on the years she seemed determined to ignore, in the hope

of discovering that she was commonplace. But Ora, who found him more

interesting than any man she had met in Europe, also a conquest to be

proud of, continued to make herself interesting--and elusive--with a

skill and subtlety that so closely resembled the frank ingenuousness of

the West, that the man accustomed to the patented finesse of European

women experienced the agreeable sensation of renewing his youth. He

felt himself falling in love like a schoolboy, and meditated flight. He

remained in Rome, however, and made a deliberate attempt to fascinate

her. Then one day when Ida was pouring tea at the Embassy, chaperoned

by Lady Gower, he found Ora alone, indisposed after a sleepless night,

and lost his head. Ora, who was in no mood to let him down gently and

reserve him for conversational pleasures, dismissed him abruptly,

and had not seen him since. She had regretted her impatience, for he

was always worth talking to, her feminine liking for his type was

very strong, and she had amused herself fancying that if she had not

permitted another man to rule her imagination she might have found her

fate in this one. But as he had presumed to follow her when she had

banished him summarily, she greeted him with cool civility and resumed

her study of the kaleidoscopic crowd.

Suddenly she moved her head in a fashion that suggested the lifting of

one of the little ears that lay so close to her head and were not the

least of her points. The ear was on the side next to her companion in

arms. Could it be that Ida was flirting with Valdobia? Mrs. Compton’s

manner and speech were as correct as her smartly tailored suit and hat

of black velvet and the calm pride of her bearing, but she was talking

with sweet earnestness to the Roman about himself and expressing her

plaintive gratitude that he had cared to follow them to Genoa, where

she at least was very lonely. It had not been possible for Ora to see

the flash of understanding these two had exchanged after Valdobia’s

first puzzled glance, but she did see many heads turn to look at the

handsome and well-matched couple. Even the Italian women did not

smile ironically as they so often did at the too obvious American

tourist. Ida not only had delivered herself of every exterior trace

of commonness, but would no more have appeared on the street looking

the mere tourist than she could be betrayed into adopting the extreme

of any new style by the persuasive Parisian. She saw Ora’s head come

round her shoulder, and her voice deepened to the soft husky tones she

reserved for decisive moments with her agitated admirers, then dropped

so low that only the man, with his head bent, could hear the words. At

this stage of the flirtation’s progress Ora noted that the approving

glances of the sympathetic Italians were accompanied by significant

smiles.

They had reached the end of the long Galleria for the second time and

turned. The crowd was thin. The restaurants were filling. Shutters

were rattling down over the windows of the tempting shops. Said Ora

abruptly,

“I think I’d like to dine in one of these cafés--the Milano. The

Bristol dining-room is a little Ritz, and it’s a bore to dress.”

Valdobia leaned forward with a pleasant smile. “I should like nothing

better, but you must dine with me.”

“Why not? What do you say, Ida?”

“I’d love it. The food is good and the crowd more interesting.”

They entered the bright café and seated themselves at one of the side

tables, the two girls on the bench against the wall, Valdobia in the

chair opposite. A number of the tables were already occupied, several

by stout comfortable couples, but the majority by men with their hats

on, playing dominoes or reading the evening papers. Opposite the door

was a long table set forth with the delicacies of the season: raw meat,

winter vegetables, oranges, and kicking lobsters.

Valdobia, assiduously waited upon by the proprietor himself (whose

wife, surrounded by several of her children, smiled benignantly from

the cashier’s desk), ordered a special dinner; a light soup (the table

d’hôte soup was a meal in itself), spaghetti, inimitably cooked veal

in brown butter, salad, freshly caught fish, ices, and a bottle of the

host’s most precious Chianti.

“I never could have pictured you in a Bohemian restaurant,” said Ora,

smiling brilliantly into the face of her host. “Have you ever been in a

place like this before?”

“About as often as I have weeks to my credit.” He looked steadily

into her snapping eyes. “You have studied Italians to little purpose

if you’ve not discovered their partiality for their native cooking.

These plain little cafés are the last strongholds in our large cities.

Even the restaurants where the business men go for luncheon are queer

imitations of London or Paris.”

“We like to come here because the men pay no attention to us. It is men

of your class that know how to make us thoroughly uncomfortable.”

“Quite so. Every class has its own code. In ours it may be said

that the women set the pace. They demand open admiration and we are

gallant enough to give it. This class bothers itself little about the

unattainable, and merely throws you the passing tribute they would

throw to the Queen, or to a beautiful work of art.”

“Which they appreciate. Would that our working-classes did. On this

side the masses are as likely as not to spend their holidays in a

picture gallery or a museum. Ours can think of nothing better than a

saloon.”

“That may be the fault of your great country. The crude mind is

easily trained. Give your working-people more galleries and museums

and fewer saloons--or cantinas with their light wines, and beer

gardens, instead of rum and whiskey. But it is unfair to expect a new

and heterogeneous--almost chaotic--country to compete with twenty

centuries.” Two pairs of American eyes flashed, and he continued

suavely. “I fear that the old standards of my own people are in danger

of being demoralised by socialism and the new craving for raw spirits.

That is becoming a serious question with us.” He turned to Ida. “It is

far more odd to see you without your usual train of admirers--both of

you. How do you stand it?”

“Oh, we’re merely recuperating,” said Ida lightly, and smiling into his

admiring eyes. “We will return to the fray refreshed and more dangerous

than ever.”

“How much longer shall you stay here?”

“A week or two. Then we go on to Paris. After that Egypt, Spain, or

some other old place.”

“But not without seeing Monte Carlo? You must let me show it to you.”

“I suppose that is an old stamping ground of yours?”

“I go once a year, although, like a good many other pleasures, it has

lost its irresistible fascination. But I shall enjoy seeing you catch

the gambling fever.”

“I’m not very susceptible to microbes, but I don’t doubt Mrs. Blake

will gamble the clothes off her back. That would be the good old

Montana style.” And she told him something of life in Butte before it

indulged in one of its spasms of exterior reform, and of the present

life on The Flat.

“I must see your Butte,” he said enthusiastically. “An English friend

of mine has a ranch in Wyoming, and I may go out there next year.”

Ora stood this until the fish had been removed; then she emerged

conclusively from the cold and nervous apathy that had possessed her

for several days, and began to sparkle. Ida was no match for her

when she chose to exert herself, for that native product only really

shone when able to employ her own rich vocabulary. She subsided

with a smile and devoted herself to the excellent dinner, while Ora

entertained their fastidious host with bright little stories of the

adventures they never failed to experience, being two young women who

travelled with their eyes and ears wide open. Valdobia, now satisfied

that he had recaptured the interest of his lady and been in a measure

forgiven, gave her all his attention; although not a man disposed to

conversational exertion, he took pains to interest her in return. They

discussed the news of the day and the latest books; and his deference

to her opinions was very flattering, although he did not permit a

flash of his eyes to betray his passionate delight at being once more

with this woman whom he thought lovelier and more desirable than ever.

Ora wore a blue velvet suit, not too dark, and a little hat of the

same shade with a long feather that nestled in her warm ashen hair.

Her cheeks were as pink as her lips, and she held her chin up as if

drinking in the elixir of her native air. She looked very young and

wholly without guile.

She continued to enchant him until they were in the Bristol, and the

lift stopped at the first floor. Then she abruptly bade him good-night,

and ascended to her room, while the others went into the smoking-room

and ordered coffee at one of the smaller tables.

“Well?” said Ida, smiling. “I’m not the sort that talks in circles

except when I’m on parade. I’m glad you’ve come. Ora was fearfully down

about something. I believe she likes you better than any man she has

met over here. A little flirtation will do her no end of good.”

Valdobia coloured. He was as practical as most Italians, but by no

means given to the direct method of speech with women. Love simplifies

among other things, however, and after a moment he put down his cup and

looked her straight in the eyes.

“I think I shall take you into my confidence,” he said. “I know that

you are honest and that I can trust to your discretion----”

“You bet.”

Ida relaxed her spine with her speech and settled herself comfortably.

“And you could give me great assistance. I want to persuade your

friend--may I call her Ora to you? It is a beautiful name and I have

said it so often to myself----”

“Ora goes.”

“I want to persuade Ora to divorce her husband and marry me.”

“Aw--that is--Good Lord!” Ida sat up straight and nearly dropped her

cup. “That’s a large order.”

“Rather. But I--now--want nothing less. I am sick of the other sort of

thing, even if she were not too good for it. I want to marry--and she

is the only woman I ever have wanted to marry.”

“Hm. You Italians haven’t the name of being the best husbands in the

world. How long would you be faithful to her?”

“I have no intention of ever being anything else.”

“That’s what they all say--think, no doubt.”

“I shall be.” He spoke with intense conviction.

“Well, perhaps--you’ve lived your life. I should think you men would

get mighty sick of dancing about and never coming to anchor. But

divorce? There’s Mark, you know.”

“Her present husband?”

“Yes, and a rattling good fellow. He married Ora when she didn’t know

which way to turn, and she is really grateful to him, and as fond of

him as if he were her own brother. I don’t think she’ll turn him down.”

“Women have been known to desert their brothers before this! I mean to

make her love me, and if I do--how she could love a man!--I fancy I can

persuade her.”

“I like Mark and I don’t want to see him thrown down. He’s not what you

might call in love with Ora--he got discouraged pretty early in the

game. But he’s fond of her and proud of her, and he has ambitions. She

could help him a lot.”

Valdobia lit another cigarette.

“Better have a liaison and get over it. Then he’ll never know, and what

men don’t know don’t hurt them.”

“I shall do nothing of the sort. I mean to marry her. Will you help me

or not?”

“Ora’d look fine all right in that old palace of yours. It would suit

her a long sight better than Butte, or even Washington--let alone

Helena; Mark wouldn’t mind a bit being Governor of Montana. Have you

got a castle in the country?”

“I have several.”

“Fine! I’d visit you every year.”

“No one would be half as welcome.”

“I’ve been away from America so long and seen so much, and Butte seems

so far away, that I’ve kind of lost my bearings. If you’d come over

there and lay your siege, I guess I’d fight you to the last ditch.”

“Permit me to remind you that we are in Italy, a state several

centuries ahead of yours in civilisation, even if we lack your facile

divorce laws. I know something of Mr. Blake from Mrs. O’Neil. Can you

picture Ora finishing her life with him?”

“No, I can’t, and that’s a fact. I wonder there hasn’t been a grand

bust-up before this. It will come some day. Why not now?”

“Quite so.”

“And Mark could get a dozen girls to suit him better, make him nice and

comfy. He’ll never get any real companionship out of Ora, fine as she’s

always treated him. A man like that needs a running mate.”

“I shall waste none of my mental energy in sympathy for Mr. Mark Blake.

American husbands, so far as I have been permitted to observe, are

accustomed not only to being deserted for months and even years at a

time, but to periodical divorce.”

“It’s not quite as bad as that, but Mark has the elasticity of an india

rubber ball, and that’s a fact.”

“Good. Will you help me?”

Ida hesitated an instant longer, then, dimly conscious that her answer

in a measure was dictated by a profound instinct she made no attempt to

define, exclaimed, “It’s a go. I believe it will be all for the best.

Shake.” And she gave his hand a hearty grasp.

“You are a brick,” he murmured, with a sensation of gratitude he had

rarely experienced. “But there is one thing more. Please give her no

hint of this, for the present at least. Tell her, and make her believe

it, that I have not come here to trouble her, that she need never fear

to trust herself alone with me. Tell her that I only want to enjoy her

society and make things pleasant for her.”

“Right you are. Ora’s not the sort you can rush. But don’t overdo it

and make her think you’ve altogether got over it. Sometimes that piques

and works out all right and sometimes it don’t. She’s as proud as

Lucifer and might get over her fancy for you while she was still mad.”

“You do know your sex! I’ll use all the art I’ve ever acquired.”

“Respectful devotion without humility, and pained self-control. That’s

your lay.”

He laughed heartily. “We’ll drift for the present.”

“Well, now, drift out. I want to go up and sound her. I’m simply

expiring to know what she’s thinking about at the present moment.”

XXXIII

When Ida reached her room she put her ear to the closed door leading

into Ora’s, and heard the scratch of the hotel pen.

“May I come in?” she asked softly.

There was a rattle of paper, the snap of a trunk lid, and then Ora said

in tones as dulcet, “Come in, dear.”

Ida entered and found Ora extended on the sofa.

“What did you run off like that for?” she asked, as she selected the

least uncomfortable of the chairs in the fresh and artistic but hardly

luxurious room. “The poor man was as glum as a funeral until he’d had

two cups of coffee and several cigarettes.”

“I was tired. And I really think he has followed you.”

“You don’t think anything of the sort. His heart was in his patent

leathers when he met us, and I just tided him over. He gave me a

message for you. Shall I deliver it?”

“Why not?” asked Ora languidly.

“He wants me to impress you with the fact that he’s not come here to

make love to you, just to enjoy your exhilarating society----”

“Is he over it?” Ora’s eyes flashed upward.

“Not exactly, but he has no intention of making any more breaks, and

being cut off from the solace of your company now and then--principally

now, I guess. He’s got to see you or go off to India and shoot tigers.

But he’s really much nicer than I had any idea of, and is anxious to

give us a good time. Life is a desert, kid, with all the men we know in

the next town. Men were invented to amuse us, so do continue to thaw.

You did bravely when you got started, and no harm will be done. If you

can’t fall in love with him you can’t, and he’s prepared to take his

medicine. He’s a good sport. A man like that can behave himself when he

sets his mind to it.”

“Is he indulging in the hope that I can be made to care for him?”

“Men are so conceited that they always hope for the best. But he’ll

not worry you, that’s the point. It will be fine to have him pilot us

about; perhaps he’ll get us inside of one of those old palaces in the

Via Garibaldi. And he’ll take us to Monte Carlo. How do you feel about

it?”

“I don’t care whether he goes or stays, but on the whole I am rather

glad he is here. He has brains and I like to talk to clever men that

have seen the world.”

“And don’t keep me hitched to your elbow all the time, for mercy’s

sake. I hope he’ll dig up some friend of his here who will beau me.

Give him a chance and remember he is a gentleman and has passed his

word.”

“Is this a plot?” Ora laughed. “Don’t worry. I won’t bore you any

more than I can help. I fancy I am quite safe, for he never really

can see me alone, as we have no salon here. Besides, in long days of

sight-seeing he’ll no doubt recover, and we shall become merely the

best of friends.”

“That’s what I’m figuring on. Now, cut out those love letters and come

down to earth.”

Ora sat up in her indignation. “Love letters? I’ve not written a line

of love.”

“What in the name of goodness do you write about then to this lover in

the air?”

“Oh, I just--_talk_--about everything that interests me--the things

one says to a familiar spirit--that is if there were such a thing--but

otherwise has to keep to oneself always.”

“And you don’t call them love letters, because you leave out the

‘darlings’ and ‘dears’? Good thing the man will never see them.

Good thing for more reasons than one. Men hate long letters. If I’d

disobeyed orders and inflicted Greg, I never would have got that house

and the extra ten thousand.”

“And yet he was in love with you once?”

“Thought he was. Just had the usual attack of brain fever men always

get when they can’t have the girl they want without marrying her.

Lasted about a month. Greg cares too much for other things for any

woman to last more than a few minutes in his life, anyway. Just the

husband for me.”

Ora was swinging one foot and looking at the point of her slipper.

“I shan’t destroy those letters,” she said finally, “because they have

meant something to me that nothing in this life ever will again. But

I’ll write no more.”

* * * * *

They remained in Genoa for ten days longer. Valdobia, who had taken

rooms at the Miramare, gave them a dinner and they met several of his

Genoese friends, but none of the men was blest with Ida’s critical

approval. Her demand for the admiration of men was merely a part of her

insolent pride in her beauty and magnetism and her love of power; she

had little natural coquetry, and wasted no time on a man who bored her

or was not “worth while.” She particularly hated soft dark eyes, and

the two unfortunate young scions of the aristocracy of Genoa invited

by Valdobia, had peculiarly lovely orbs that they rolled exceedingly.

But it was a merry party, for no people can be gayer than the Genoese,

and they played baccarat until two in the morning; a new experience

for the Americans. During the hours devoted to the game Ida had the

satisfaction of observing that two pairs of flaming dark eyes had

apparently forgotten the existence of woman. Even Valdobia, who held

the bank twice and lost a good deal of money, became very keen on the

table, although he kept Ora beside him and taught her all that one can

learn of a game of chance. The stakes ran very high toward the end,

Valdobia lost several thousand francs, and Ora five hundred. She would

have lost more, no doubt, for she found it an interesting and exciting

experience, but Valdobia dictated her stakes, and she meekly obeyed.

Ida, who had been wary, came out even.

“You don’t catch me dropping good money when I don’t get something good

enough in return,” she announced as they entered her room at the hotel.

“It’s fun all right, but like most things that are off on a side-track

from your main purpose in life, just to be nibbled at. I prefer bridge

anyhow.”

“Do you? I think I like the game of chance. I don’t mind losing----”

“Well, I do. It made me sick to see you lose five hundred francs, and

if it hadn’t been for Valdobia you’d have lost as much more. I couldn’t

sleep a wink if I’d lost a hundred plunks.”

Ora laughed. “It would be great fun to see you really excited and

carried away about something. I hope you will have visions of sudden

wealth at Monte Carlo and forget the world.”

“Not much!” said Ida contemptuously. “I’ll be rich, all right, but

it’ll be because I take no chances. I knew whom I was marrying, and

he’ll make the millions. You’ll never see me spend a cent unless it

brings in good interest, like clothes, and tips, and entertaining.

And the only thing that could excite me would be if Amalgamated got

the hill, and Greg had to go to work to make his fortune as a mining

engineer. But I’m not the kind to get wrinkles worrying. Lord! Don’t

the people in this town ever go to sleep?”

Their windows were close to the Via Venti Settembre, although on a

short side street. It is possible that the afternoon throngs are

replaced by a different set in the evening, and these again by lovers

of the night; but certain it is that the more inviting of the streets

are rarely deserted until dawn, and the later the revellers the

more noisy they are; following a universal law of nature. When the

light-hearted Genoese has sung all his songs to the stars and chattered

at the top of his voice for several hours, he stands still and screams.

The girls put their heads out of the window, wondering if anyone were

being murdered below. A group of young men were standing in a circle

and outscreaming one another.

Ida slammed the long windows together, fastened the catch and covered

them with the heavy shutters. “Me for beauty sleep,” she said; “I like

air all right, but I like quiet better. Good night.”

Ora left her window open and lay thinking for a long time. She liked

the new excitement of gambling, and she was divided between regret

and gratitude that for the last five days she had enjoyed thoroughly

the society of the man who would have been the chief exponent of

the type she admired had he possessed more primitive strength of

personality; had he been obliged to develop his native forces in a

fierce battle with life instead of having been from, birth one of her

favourites. But he was a man, brave, unsoftened by luxury, quick, keen,

resourceful, modern to his finger-tips, an almost perfect companion.

What more could any woman ask? Ora wondered just what it was she did

ask. She felt very grateful to him, however. Her regret was that her

unreal life seemed to be over, or slept profoundly when she perversely

and tentatively summoned it. That life had been terrible in its

intensity, only retreating now and again when real events crowded,

or she deliberately tried to interest herself in a new and charming

personality. But all men sooner or later faded to the transparency of

wraiths beside the vital figure that dominated her imaginative life.

Would Valdobia accomplish the miracle? At least he gave her peace for

the moment. She fell asleep smiling and deliberately thinking of him.

XXXIV

On the following day they lunched at a large restaurant opposite

the Bourse, a favourite resort of the two girls; it amused them to

watch the keen clever business men of Genoa at their midday meal in

leisurely conversation and enjoyment of their excellent food and wine;

contrasting them with the American who took five minutes for lunch,

achieving dyspepsia instead of nutriment, and possibly accomplishing

less than a race which has been commercial and acquisitive since the

dawn of its history. There is little real poverty in Genoa and great

wealth.

They had come too late to secure one of the tables overlooking the

Piazzi Defarrari, and were facing the windows, at one of the longer

tables, when Valdobia, who sat opposite, rose with a word of apology

and went behind them to greet a man with a pleasant English voice.

“Lord John Mowbray,” whispered Ida. “He’s all right, but, lord, I’ll be

glad to get back to a country where a few men are plain mister.”

Nevertheless, as the Englishman bent over her with a delighted word of

greeting, she lifted her heavy eyes to his with the expression of one

whose long suppressed hopes have blossomed at last.

“I wish I could join you,” he said ruefully, “but I am with a party of

friends.”

“Get rid of them after lunch,” murmured Ida, “and come with us. We

are going to explore all those interesting little streets down in the

gulch--that is to say the ravine, or whatever it was once--and it would

be jolly to have you along.”

“I will,” he said, with fervour, “and I know what a gulch is. My

brother is ranching in Wyoming, and I may join him there in a few

months. I believe he also has interests in Butte.”

“Good! We’ll begin to get friendly right now. So long.” Valdobia

returned to his chair, and she asked, “Is he a brother of your Wyoming

friend?”

“He is, and no doubt we’ll go out together. Your Northwest must be the

realest thing left in the world.”

“It’s that, all right. And it will be no end of fun having you out

there!” She smiled sardonically, and Ora coloured and moved restlessly.

She was vaguely aware of a new drama unfolding, and had no wish to

analyse it.

Mowbray, to Ida’s satisfaction, not only deserted his friends after

luncheon, but permitted them to go on to Rome without him and lingered

in Genoa. He was a fair well set-up young Englishman, with a nonchalant

manner and an inflammable heart. Ida had met him at a country house and

amused herself “landing him,” but as she had left England immediately

after, and hunting had claimed all his ardours, she neither had seen

nor heard from him since. Although she meant to keep him at her elbow

as long as he served her purpose, she knew him to be a shy youth under

his natural buoyancy and quick intelligence, and did not disturb her

placid mind with visions of “scenes.” On the whole she liked Englishmen

better than any of the men she had met in Europe, for they had more

pride and self-control where women were concerned; if things went

deeper with them they were less likely to offend her cold purity with

outbursts of passion: which, she confided to Ora, “made her sick.”

To her delight Valdobia took them one afternoon to call on an elderly

relative who lived in one of the great palaces of the Via Garibaldi.

They were escorted up to the top floor; the rooms on the other

_pianos_ were either closed or emitted the chill breath of the tomb.

Their destination was a large lofty room, inadequately heated by a

stove in one corner; their noble hostess was fortified against the

cold by several shawls and a foot-warmer. She had invited three other

aristocratic relics in to look at “the Americans,” and, although the

principessa and her friends were more polite than they would have been

to intruding bourgeoises of their own country, it was apparent that

they could find little to say to two young women from a land of which

they had a confused and wholly contemptuous apprehension. They knew

that its chief title to fame was its original discovery by a Genoese,

that the lower classes emigrated to it a good deal, and that many

American women, who spent far too much money on their clothes, visited

Europe and occasionally married above them. More than this they neither

knew nor cared to know. So far as they were concerned new countries did

not exist.

Conversation languished. Ida was suppressed, and divided between a

desire to laugh and to scream. Ora, with a heroic effort, talked about

the mistake the average American made in seeing so little of Genoa;

but, having laid aside her furs out of politeness, she was shivering,

and unable to drink the strong coffee which immediately succumbed to

the temperature of the room.

She sent an appealing glance to Valdobia, who was smiling to himself.

Lord John, who had been honoured by a chair beside his hostess, treated

with the consideration due his ancient lineage, was delivering himself

of spasmodic clauses, with one eye on Valdobia.

“Jimminy!” whispered Ida, who now felt quite at home with her fellow

conspirator, “if you don’t get us out of this quick I’ll have

high-strikes, and Ora’ll get a cold and be laid up for a week. I always

keep her in bed when she has a cold.”

Valdobia rose instantly. “We have an engagement in half an hour,” he

said to his mother’s second cousin. “Perhaps you will permit me to show

these ladies over the palace?”

“Oh, do!” exclaimed Mowbray, acting on instinct, for he was too cold

and too unnerved to think. “I’d like jolly well to see it myself; must

be rippin’.”

The permission was given with some graciousness, and the party bowed

themselves out. As they descended the grand staircase, they heard a

buzz of voices behind them, as of several elderly ladies talking at

once.

“We’d be roasting on red-hot coals this minute if there were any in

that refrigerator,” said Ida, “but I don’t care so long as we are going

to see the real part of the palace.”

An aged major domo showed them through the magnificent reception rooms,

built for entertaining a proud and gorgeous aristocracy in the days

when Genoa was known throughout Europe as “La Superba.” They were hung

with tapestries or cordova leather, and filled with priceless pictures,

porcelains, enamels, gold and silver ware, and massive furniture.

Valdobia told them dramas sentimental and tragic which had been

enacted within the walls of the historic house. But they had to stamp

about to avoid a chill, and were glad to emerge into the warmer air of

even the narrow street.

“Well,” announced Ida, as they walked rapidly out of the Via Garibaldi

into the broad sunshine of the Piazza delle Fontane Marose, “if

that’s a sample of your ancient aristocracy no more of it in mine. My

curiosity is satisfied for good and all. Why on earth don’t they live

like human beings?”

“Or steam-heated Americans?” asked Valdobia, smiling. “Console yourself

with the assurance that you are the only Americans that have ever

crossed that threshold.”

“It doesn’t console me one little bit, and I feel pneumonia coming on.

Let’s walk as fast as we know how!” And accompanied by the willing

Englishman she started off with a stride that soon left the others far

behind.

“It is true,” said Valdobia disgustedly, “that this older generation

does not know how to live, not in any sense. They possess the greatest

wealth in Italy, and they hoard it as if poverty stared them in the

face. They have only to turn on the electric lights once a week and

provide a simple supper to make Genoa one of the most delightful cities

in Europe, but they won’t even do that. They have the finest jewels

in Italy and never wear them except on the rare occasions when the

King and Queen visit Genoa and command them to the royal palace. Thank

heaven there is a younger set, equally well born, that live in the new

apartment houses or in those villas up on the hills, and are neither

too economical nor too antiquated in their ideas to enjoy life. Those

old people are divided up into intimate little sets and spend their

lives gossipping about the rest of Genoa or talking of the past. But I

do hope you did not take cold.”

“I didn’t, and I really enjoyed it!” said Ora, smiling mischievously.

“I amused myself thinking what would happen if I told our uncomfortable

hostess that my father’s sister had married a Roman relative of her

husband; but I wouldn’t have relieved the situation for the world. I

suppose they are fumigating themselves.”

“I don’t doubt it. They think they are aristocratic and are merely

provincial.”

“How different you are!” Ora looked at him admiringly. “One hardly

could believe that you belonged to the same race.”

“I don’t. I am a Roman, and a citizen of the world. No doubt you, too,

have a root that runs back into the dark ages, but today is all that

counts with us. I mean that in more senses than one!” And, although he

smiled, he gave her a quick side-glance.

“I hope so. I am well aware that you are enjoying yourself immensely.”

Ora felt it quite safe to flirt with him in the open street.

“Do you like me a little better?”

“Rather. Friendly companionship is my chief idea of happiness, now that

I am more or less tired of books.”

“Is it? May it be my good fortune to initiate you into a higher! You

have everything to learn!”

“Have I? I wonder!”

“What do you mean by that? Have you ever been in love?”

“Not the least little bit!”

“You said that rather too vehemently. It is my turn to wonder.” This

time he looked hard at her and his face was grim. He had a way of

setting his jaw that reminded her of the man whose haunting memory had

made her alternately happy and miserable during many long months. She

looked away hastily.

“The kind of love you mean I have not the very least knowledge of. You

must believe that.”

“Of what other kind, then?”

“Oh, all women dream, you know,” she said lightly. “They have a sort of

ideal that consoles them for missing the realities of life. You come

quite close to it,” and once more she sparkled her eyes at him.

“I have no intention of letting you flirt with me,” said Valdobia

calmly. “My flirting days are over. I shall remain the best of your

friends until you love me or send me to the other end of the world.”

“Well, don’t become serious and spoil everything.”

“I shall not lose my head, if that is what you mean,” he said drily. “I

find the present state of affairs very pleasant. Let us overtake the

others and go for a drive.”

XXXV

“Well,” said Ora, when she and Ida had returned to the hotel to dress

for dinner, “did you have a queer feeling when you were prowling

through those dim old rooms, furnished three or four hundred years ago,

and the scene of all sorts of romance and tragedy?”

“I had a queer feeling all right. Had visions of rheumatism, sciatica,

pneumonia, and a red nose for a week. I suppose those wonderful velvet

gowns they wore--in pictures, anyhow--were padded inside, and they

slept in them; didn’t take them off all winter. If I lived in one of

those palaces today I’d surely lose all my good American habits.”

“Didn’t you have any haunting sense of mystery--of having been there

before?”

“Nixie! No wonder I murdered if I ever was. However,” she added

thoughtfully, “there’s no telling what I might have felt if they’d had

a furnace in the house. There was something wonderful about it, all

right--being in those musty old rooms, that fairly smelt of the past. I

guess they’ll haunt me as some of those Roman palaces have that are not

shown to the public. But don’t put weird ideas into my head, Ora. They

don’t gee with Butte. The severely practical is my lay.”

“Don’t you think there could be romance and tragedy in Butte?”

“Oh, plenty of shooting, if you mean that; and mixing-up. But people

don’t stay jealous long enough to get real tragic about it; they just

get a divorce. We’ve improved on daggers and poisoned bowls and rings,

and the rest of it. Good old Butte!”

They all dined at the Bristol that night, and soon after nine o’clock

had the smoking-room to themselves. Ida, indeed, carried Mowbray off

into the reading-room. Ora sighed as she found herself alone with the

handsome distinguished Roman of the type that even in minor exponents

so often compelled her response. Why didn’t she love him? He was

proving himself the ideal companion. There was apparently no question

to which he had not given some thought, and he knew far more about the

subjects that appealed to her than she did herself. They discussed

the ever-fascinating sexual problems impersonally, delicately, and

exhaustively, a feat in itself, an experience Ora never had enjoyed

before; for while it drew them together it apparently neither disturbed

Valdobia nor altered his attitude toward her. His analyses of politics

and of the fashionable authors of the day were the acutest she had

heard or read, and he enlarged her knowledge of the world by his

anecdotes of life in the different capitals of Europe that he knew so

well. He could be personal without egotism, and his sense of humour was

keener than her own. While he treated her ideas and criticisms with

deference he forced her to look up to him and to feel only pleasure in

his masterful mind and great experience.

Tonight he made her talk about herself; and, artfully beating about her

life’s most significant chapter, she expressed herself with a freedom

and veracity which she found another novel and fascinating experience;

her confidences to Ida were superficial and sporadic. She could feel

his sympathy and understanding flow toward her, although he uttered

no sentimental platitudes, and let only his eyes express a little

of what he felt. But for the hour she glowed with a sense of utter

companionship, her mind was stimulated to the pitch of excitement; she

caught herself wishing that they could have these long intimate talks

for the rest of their lives, and that he would sometimes hold her hand

to complete the sense of perfect understanding.

When they parted at midnight and she walked slowly up the stairs

alone--Ida had dismissed Mowbray an hour since--she sighed again.

Why didn’t she feel the pull? What was the nature of that mysterious

current that seemed to vibrate between two people only out of the

world’s billions, and was quite independent of mental identities?

Certainly passion was not the only source. If she had been free and

never had met Gregory Compton she would have married Valdobia and given

him all he craved; for his magnetism was by no means confined to his

brain. Why could not she love him as it was? She had not been the

heroine of one of those passionate love affairs that leave a woman

cold for several years, perhaps for ever. The intensity of emotion she

had experienced during these months in Europe had been one-sided, a

mere madness of the imagination. She had yet to realise that a woman

can live more profoundly and completely with a man in her imagination

than when in daily contact with his discouraging weaknesses, his

inability to reach her impossible standard, and impinged upon by the

disintegrating forces of daily life.

Such women as Ora Blake, endowed with a certain measure of creative

imagination, yet spending their maturing years unnaturalised citizens

in a cross-section of life which barely brushes their aloofness in

passing, develop as unnormally as those that cultivate this exotic

garden of the mind for fame and fortune. If they find a mate while the

imagination is still as young as their years, these highly organised

women, with every sense and faculty keenly alert, and stimulated by

mental contact as others may be by drugs and wine, have the opportunity

at least to be the happiest beings on earth. If they marry a brute,

or are forced to fight the world for bread, a wide channel is dug in

the brain through which flow the normal and crowding thoughts of the

average, commonplace, adaptable woman; which is perhaps the best of all

educations for life.

But Ora had married a kind prosaic man who soon learned to let her

alone, and kept her in a comfort that burdened her days with leisure.

If she had been unimaginative no harm would have been done. She either

would have grown fond of her essential husband and become a domestic

angel, or consoled herself with society and bridge. But, misplaced in

life, she belonged to the intellectual aristocracy of the earth, who

are the loneliest of its inhabitants, unless they can establish an

invisible bond with their fellow-beings by offerings from that mental

garden which is at once their curse and their compensation for the

doubtful gift of life.

Ora was too indifferent to the world to care to weave this gossamer

bridge, and had grown accustomed to mental solitude. But she had

never placed any curb on her imagination. In the days when her only

solace was books it enabled her to visualise the _mise-en-scène_ of

the remote or immediate past, the procession of the traveller, or the

abstractions of science; as if she were in one of those theatres

where the great modern manager threatens to atrophy what imagination

is left in the world. It even enabled her to enjoy fiction whose scene

was a land of which she had no personal knowledge; a rare gift in the

American, whose demand for familiar settings and characters keeps our

literature commonplace. And she could at will shut her eyes and wander

in Europe when Butte became insufferable.

Her surrender to the obsession of Gregory Compton had been gradual;

she had fought it, not only out of loyalty to her husband and her

friend, but because the future menaced terrors against which she had no

desire to pit her strength. But she had finally cast defiance to the

future, and dismissed her phantom loyalty with a shrug. Mark no doubt

had consoled himself for her defection long since; to Ida a husband

was a money-maker pure and simple. She herself would never see Gregory

Compton again if she could avoid it; or, if life took her inevitably

back to Butte, no doubt her infatuation would have been cured by mental

satiety, and she would be able to greet him with the indifference that

is ever the portion of the discarded lover.

Having arrived at this reasonable conclusion, she had dismissed

cynicism, cowardice, and qualms, to limbo, and entered upon one of

those exalting, tormenting, incredibly sweet, and profoundly depressing

mental love affairs, which, lacking the element of comedy inevitable in

all actual relations between men and women, obsess the mind and detach

it from life.

After she parted from Valdobia, puzzled and wistful, she recalled one

week during which she had been completely happy. Ida was visiting

friends uncongenial to herself, and she had gone alone to Bruges. In

that ancient city of almost perfect beauty, she had given the wildness

in her nature uninterrupted liberty. She had written letters that no

woman yet has sent to a man without regretting it, for in this stage

of man’s progress, at least, he wants little of the soul of woman. It

is possible that the women who live in their imaginations are the most

fortunate, after all, for they arbitrarily make man the perfect mate

he possibly may be some centuries hence. At all events Ora imagined

Gregory Compton with her unremittingly, deliberately ignoring the

depression that must descend upon her when once more companioned by his

wife. It had seemed to her that her step had never been so buoyant,

her body so light. People had paused to stare at the beautiful young

American with her head in the air looking as if she were about to

sing. It had been a wonderful, an almost incredible experience, and

she never had been able quite to recapture it even when alone in the

night. But she had wondered sometimes if life held any happiness as

real as that had been, and she wondered again as she switched off her

light and flung herself into the bed that had witnessed so much despair

before Valdobia had appeared and put a quietus on her imagination.

She wondered also if the passion of the soul were so much greater

than the common experience of man and woman that its indulgence must

forever make life itself unreal. She felt that this question threw some

light on her problem, then dismissed the subject peremptorily. She

might regret that extraordinary love affair, with its terrors and its

delights, but she would bury it once for all; and she fell asleep with

the wise remark:

“What fools we are! Oh, lord, what fools!”

XXXVI

After this she discarded what was left of her crust, and emerged like

a butterfly. The present was delightful, she would enjoy it without

analysis or retrospect. She met several clever and interesting men,

but had eyes for no one but Valdobia. They explored Genoa until they

knew it almost as well as the natives, spending hours down in the long

twisted streets, so narrow that no vehicle had ever visited them, and

swarming like the inside of an anthill. Harrowing adventures were

impossible, for the Genoese masses if discourteous are neither a

lawless nor an impertinent race. Ora and Ida might have roamed alone,

and been unmolested save by the enterprising shopkeepers that dealt in

filigree. They rode over the steep hills in the trams, and took long

motor drives in the brilliant winter sunshine to the picturesque towns

and villages down the Riviera. Then, on a Saturday morning, they bade

good-bye to the ancient city and took the train for Monte Carlo.

The girls established themselves in a small hotel opposite the Casino

Gardens, the men in the great hotel that lies between the Casino and

the International Sporting Club.

“I suppose we really should have sent for Lady Gower,” said Ora,

doubtfully, as they hooked each other up for dinner. “It’s stretching

the point rather to come to a place like Monte Carlo with two men.

We’ll be sure to run into a dozen people we know.”

“Oh, bother! I love the idea of feeling real devilish for once.

Besides, anything goes at Monte Carlo, and everybody is interested in

gambling and nothing else. What good would old Norfolk-Howard do us,

anyhow, asleep on a sofa. She never could keep awake after ten, and

nobody’d know in those big rooms whether she was there or not. We’re

Americans, anyhow, and I’m having the time of my life. Lord John is a

perfect dear.”

“Well, at least I am thankful that you are no longer in a hurry to

return to Butte.”

“Butte’ll keep, I guess. The more experiences I take back the

more they’ll think of me. Gives me backbone to feel a real

woman-of-the-world. Besides, kid, it’s good philosophy to drink the

passing moment dry. Amalgamated may bust us any minute. You look

prettier every day, and I’m not going off either.”

She wore a severely cut gown of black velvet, the corsage draped with

coral-coloured chiffon. Her first evening gowns, cut by the ruthless

Parisian, had caused her many qualms but they had been growing more

_décolleté_ ever since; and so superb were her neck and shoulders that

she had ceased to regret her lack of jewels. Ora had refrained from

buying any, although she longed for sapphires; but she always wore her

pearls. Tonight her gown was of a misty pale green material from which

she rose like a lily from its calyx. She still wore her hair massed

softly on the top of her head, and although not as tall as Ida, and far

from being as fully developed, was an equally arresting figure. No two

women were ever more excellent foils, and that may have been one secret

of their amicable relations.

They dined with their cavaliers at one of the fashionable restaurants,

then, after an hour in the Casino rooms, which were not at all to their

taste, with their ornate walls and dingy crowd, went by means of lifts

and underground corridors over to the International Sporting Club.

Valdobia and Mowbray had put them up at this exclusive resort during

the afternoon and they entered the roulette rooms at once. Here the

walls were chastely hung with pale grey satin, and all the colour was

in the company. The long tables were crowded with smart-looking men

and women of both worlds, although only the ladies that had stepped

down from ancestral halls dared to show a grey hair or a wrinkle. The

cocottes were so young and fresh as well as beautiful that to Ora and

Ida they looked much like girls of their own class. All, young and old,

were splendidly dressed and bejewelled; and if there was excitement

in their brains there was no evidence of it in their calm or animated

faces. They might have been a great house-party amusing themselves with

some new and innocuous game.

Our party walked about for a time dividing their attention between the

spinning balls, the faces of the players, and the gowns of the women;

even those of the cocottes were not eccentric, although worn with a

certain inimitable style. Their ropes of pearls were also the longest

in the room. A number of the most notable men in Europe were present,

princes of reigning houses, and statesmen high in the service of their

country.

In spite of the absence of that feverish excitement which is supposed

to pervade these gambling rooms of Monte Carlo (and which is absent

from the Casino even when a man shoots himself and is whisked out), Ora

wandered about in a curious state of exaltation. The cool splendour

of the rooms, the atmosphere of high breeding and restraint, the

gratification of the æsthetic sense at every turn, the beauty of

the women and the distinguished appearance of the men made it a

romantic and memorable scene. Notwithstanding the constant clink of

gold, the monotonous admonitions of the croupiers, it was a sort of

worldly fairyland, this apotheosis of one of the most perilous of

human indulgences. These people might be gambling for greed or mere

excitement, being blasé of other mundane diversions, but they were at

the same time so frank and so reserved, so pleased and so indifferent,

that they produced the illusion of sojourning on a plane high above the

common mortal with his commonplace loves and disasters and struggles

to exist or shine. No wonder that men came here to forget the burdens

of state, women Society’s conservatisms or the inconstancy of man. For

the hour, and the hour generally lasted until four in the morning, they

lived in a world apart, and a duchess sat next to a cocotte with a

serene indifference that amounted almost to democracy.

“I don’t know that romantic is the word I should use,” said Valdobia,

laughing; Ora had uttered some of her thoughts aloud; “but I think I

know what you mean. The people that come here can afford to lose; their

minds are almost as carefully composed as their costumes; they are both

pleasantly reckless and frivolous; this is their real play-time; the

world beyond these four walls is obliterated; if they lose they shrug

their shoulders, and if they win they experience something like a real

thrill; in short, being soaked in worldliness, it is their only chance

to feel primitive--for gambling was practised by the most ancient

tribes of which we have any knowledge. At the Casino most of those

people are subconsciously wondering how they are going to pay their

hotel bills and get out of Monte Carlo, calm as they manage to look;

but here--well, here you see the quintessence of the world’s frivolity.

No wonder it creates a heady atmosphere. Do you want to gamble?”

“Of course I do.”

“Well, put a louis on the red. I’ll follow your stakes. Perhaps we’ll

bring each other luck.”

They staked and won, staked and won again, seven times running without

removing their winnings from the red. Then Valdobia said, “Don’t tempt

fortune too far. The luck may turn to the green any moment. Suppose we

try ours _en plein_.” He selected the number 39, and once more they

won. Ora, her hands full of gold, turned to him with blazing eyes. Her

cheeks were crimson. Valdobia laughed.

“You mustn’t look so happy,” he said teasingly, “or these old stagers

will know that you are what your friend calls a hayseed. Better change

all this gold into notes.”

“Notes? I want my gold. Paper never did mean anything to me.”

“What a child you are--ah! I must leave you for a moment. The Duc----”

he mentioned a prince of his royal house--“wishes to speak to me. Don’t

try _en plein_ again. That rarely happens twice. Put a louis at a time

on the red.”

He left her. Ora deliberately placed not only her double handful of

gold on the red, but pushed forward the pile that had accumulated

before her. Red came up and doubled her winnings. She added to her

already imposing hillock the gold shoved toward her, and, with a quick

glance at Valdobia, who was deep in conversation with his prince, took

a thousand franc note from her châtelaine bag and laid it on top of

the gold. Once more she won, and met the sympathetic smiles of the

croupiers, who in the Sporting Club, at least, are very human persons.

She was about to add another thousand franc note, when Valdobia

returned. He swept her gold and notes off the red just as _rien ne va

plus_ sounded above the buzz of conversation behind the tables.

“What on earth are you doing?” he asked angrily. “I don’t like to see a

woman gamble like that.”

Ora pouted and looked like a naughty child.

“But I want to gamble. Give me my money. What have you to say about it?”

“I brought you here--and I shall not bring you again if you are going

to gamble like that old Frankfurt banker over there. Why not follow the

example of Mrs. Compton, who is decorously putting five franc pieces on

the green at the next table?”

“Oh, Ida! I like the sensation of doing big things. You just said we

enjoyed letting loose our primitive instincts.”

“Is that the way you felt? Well, here are three louis. Stake one at a

time. I shall change the rest into notes and give them to you at the

hotel.”

He kept his eye on her, and she staked her gold pieces one after

another and lost.

“Now,” he said, “come into the bar and have a glass of wine or a lemon

squash. I want to talk to you.”

They found seats in a corner of the bar behind a little table, and

Ora demurely ordered a lemonade. “I suppose you are going to scold

me,” she murmured, although her cheeks were still flushed and her eyes

rebellious. “What difference did it make? I am not poor, and I had won

nearly all that I risked, anyhow. You have seen women gamble all your

life. One would think that you were a hayseed, yourself.”

“Shall I be quite honest? I fancy I was jealous. For the first time I

saw you completely carried away. I had hoped to furnish that impulse

myself!”

“It is a wonderful sensation,” she said provokingly. “I doubt if

anything but gambling could inspire it.”

“Do you?” But he knew that it was no time for sentiment, and asked

curiously, “Are you so fond of gold? I never saw such a greedy little

thing.”

“Remember I’ve walked round over gold for the best part of my life, and

have a mine of my own. It fascinates me, but not because I care much

about riches--I like the liberty that plenty of money gives; that, to

my mind, is all that wealth means. But I loved the feeling of being

possessed, of being absolutely reckless. I should have liked to know

that my whole fortune depended upon that spinning ball. That would

have been worth while! It makes one forget everything--everything!”

He looked at her with half-closed eyes. “You have a secret chapter in

your life,” he said. “Some day I shall read it. But I can’t make up my

mind whether you are a born gambler or not.”

Ora shrugged her shoulders. “To tell you the truth I shouldn’t care if

I never saw a gambling table again. I have had the sensation. That is

enough. I will admit I was rather disappointed not to lose that immense

stake. Lucky at cards, you know.”

“And you think you are unlucky in love?” Valdobia laughed, but his face

was still grim. “How many men have you had in love with you already?”

“That doesn’t count!”

He turned pale. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that I don’t believe I am destined to happiness. Don’t you

think we know our lines instinctively?”

“I know that you are trying to torment me. You are still excited and

angry, so I shall not permit your words, significant as they are, to

keep me awake tonight.” He was smiling again, but she saw the anger in

his own eyes, and said impulsively:

“I rather like you better than usual tonight. You have made me do

something I didn’t want to do, and anger is becoming to you.”

“The eternal female! Well, God knows, I wouldn’t have you abnormal.

What is this?”

A page was standing before the table with a telegram in his hand. “Pour

M. le Marquis de Valdobia,” he said.

With a word of apology Valdobia opened the telegram. Ora, watching him,

saw his face turn white.

“What is it?” she asked anxiously. “I do hope it is not bad news.” She

felt a sharp pang at the possibility of losing him.

He rose and looked at his watch. “My mother is very ill,” he said. “A

train goes in an hour and ten minutes. I must take it. But there is

something I want to say to you before I go; I may be detained in Rome.

Will you get your wrap and come into the gardens for a few moments?”

“I am so sorry,” murmured Ora, with real sympathy. “Of course I will

go.”

He took her to the cloak-room. “Wait here for a moment,” he said. “I

must telephone to my man to pack and meet me at the train; and tell

Mowbray not to look for us later.”

He left her, and Ora watched the passing couples, trying not to think.

She was a little frightened, but still too excited to shrink from a

possible ordeal.

XXXVII

He returned in a few moments, and they left the Club House by the main

entrance and strolled toward the gardens; then he suddenly led her to

the terrace. There were many people walking in the tropical scented

park of the Casino, but the digue above the Mediterranean was deserted.

Monte Carlo can be cold in May but it can be as warm as July in

February, and the night was mild and beautiful. The sea under the stars

was almost as blue as by day. The air was very still, although a band

was playing somewhere, far away. From the other side of the bay came

the faint humming of an aeroplane. There was to be an aviation meet on

the morrow, and no doubt one of the airmen was about to make a trial

flight.

They sat down on one of the benches, and Valdobia folded his arms, then

turned and leaned his elbow on the back of the seat and his head on his

hand.

“I am not quite in the mood for love-making,” he said, “after the news

I have received; but I can’t go without letting you know why I followed

you to Genoa--without some sort of an understanding.”

Ora looked at him out of the corner of her eye. His face was set and

determined, but she concluded that he was not the man to be dangerous

when grieving for his mother.

“What is it?” she asked softly. “I know, of course, that you--like me.”

“I love you, and I want to marry you. I wish you to divorce your

husband and marry me. Don’t give me your final answer now,” he

continued, as Ora interrupted him. “It is not a question to decide

in a moment. But while I am gone think it over. You do not love your

husband. I know all your arguments from your friend. She made them when

I first gave her my confidence. They don’t weigh with me for a moment.

You will never spend your life with that man, good as he may be. As for

obligations, you discharged them long ago. I can make you happy, and I

believe that you know I can.”

“I don’t know.” Ora, stunned for a moment, felt thrilled and

breathless. “Oh, I don’t know!”

“I have begun to feel sure that you have loved another man, or fancied

that you loved him. Would it be possible for you to marry him if you

divorced your husband?”

Ora hesitated, then answered, “No.”

“Why is he not your lover?”

“That would be impossible, even if I would do such a thing, and you

know I would not.”

He gave a sharp sigh of relief. “I _felt_ that he had not been. Why is

it impossible?”

“There are complications. I cannot explain them. But he could not be

less to me if he were dead.”

“Does he love you?”

Ora hesitated again. “I have sometimes felt--no, of course, it is

impossible. I let my imagination run away with me, that was all.”

“You mean that he never told you--that he doesn’t write to you?”

“I met him only once, and I have never seen his handwriting.”

“Well, dismiss him from your mind. You have imagination and have

dreamed, because your demands upon life are very great, greater than

you know; and oddly enough, considering your opportunities, fruition

has eluded you. But the time has come for you to live; and you could

live!”

Ora looked down at her hands. They were ungloved and looked very white

and small. Valdobia suddenly covered them with one of his own, and bent

his face close to hers. She saw that he had forgotten his mother, and

gave a little gasp.

“Ora!” he said. “Don’t you know how happy I could make you? I not only

could teach you love, of which you know nothing, but we could always be

companions, and you are the loneliest little creature I have ever met.”

To her astonishment she saw two tears splash on his hand, and winking

rapidly discovered that they had fallen from her own eyes. As she would

have detested to see a man cry, she melted further, and whispered,

“Oh, yes, life with you would be very delightful. I know that. I fancy

the other man, even if I could marry him, would make me miserable.

He--American men that amount to anything give their wives very little

of themselves.”

“And you would be lonelier still! I have known American women that

loved their busy husbands--that _seeking_ type. They interested me,

poor things--rushing madly about trying to fill their lives. If you

join that sisterhood it will kill you. I am not an idler, for I have

business interests to which I devote a certain amount of time, but I

have leisure, and I not only should give you the companionship you have

craved all your life, but I can offer you the world in all its variety.

Now dismiss this man, whoever he is, from your mind. Even were I beside

the question, it is your duty to yourself as a woman of character, not

a sentimental schoolgirl.”

“Yes, that is true.”

“That sort of thing is morbid, besides being quite beneath a woman of

pride and dignity. But women often romance about some dream-hero until

they have found the right man. Can you doubt that I am the man for you?

You were made for Europe, not for America, and for a man that can give

you everything--everything!”

“Yes, I know.” She moved restlessly. “If I could only feel just one

thing more for you! I hardly know what to call it--I like you better

than anyone in the world. I almost love you. Why don’t I?” Her voice

was suddenly full of passion and she clasped both of her hands about

his own. “If you could only make me, I should worship you.”

He glanced about rapidly. They were quite alone. He put his arm round

her and she felt it vibrate. His face was flushed and his breath

short. She could feel his heart thumping against her head, and she

was fascinated for more reasons than one: she knew that it was many

years since any woman had roused him to strong emotion, and it was the

first great passion that had ever been close to her save in her stormy

imagination. She was enthralled for a moment, and some of the wildness

in her own nature stirred. But it was too soon, she must have time to

think. She cast about desperately and found her inspiration.

“We have been here a long time!” she said hurriedly. “You will miss

your train. Your mother may be very ill.”

He dropped his arm, and stood up.

“You are a woman of infinite resource,” he said. “And no little

cruelty. Will you consider what I have asked you--seriously?”

His anger as well as his power to control himself always fascinated

her, and she also experienced a spasm of contrition. She rose and gave

him her hand; her eyes were frank and kind.

“Yes,” she said. “I will consider it, and think of you always--and miss

you horribly. Will you telegraph to me every day?”

“Two or three times a day, probably. And don’t think I am really angry

with you. If you are cruel it is only because you don’t understand. I

am glad that you do not, for it is only women that have loved greatly

that have forgotten how to be cruel. Come. I must take you to your

hotel.”