“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.