Chapter VIII: Part I: I (8)

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?”