“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.” * * * * *