“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.”