“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?”