“Very well.” He dismissed the subject. “I--ah--there’s something I heard today, but perhaps I should not speak of it. Only Mark is such an old friend of mine----” “I suppose you saw Mr. Luning and he told you that we are to separate.” “Yes, that is it.” “I intend to live in Europe: I suppose you think that a callous reason.” “It’s as good as most reasons for divorce in this country. When is Mark coming back?” “Not for two months. Nothing will be done until then. I want to have my mining experience first and I shall leave Montana as soon as the papers are served.” “Ah!” Her partner claimed her at the moment and, his own still being occupied, he observed her furtively. He thought that she too looked older, but not because advantages had improved her; rather--he groped for the words that would give definiteness to his impression--as if some experience had saddened her. She had a softer expression. The blood rushed to his head and he almost choked with jealousy, his intuitions carrying him straight to the truth. “By God! She has loved some man,” he thought. Then he set his teeth. So much the better. But when she turned to him again, he said impulsively, although his tones were light: “You never did fit this Western life of ours. Of course you have found a more civilised mate in Europe?” “You are all wrong,” she said gaily. “My only love at present is my mine. My mine! You should understand if anybody can.” “Oh, yes, I understand that magnet. But I naturally thought----” “What everybody else will think when the news is out. But I am astonished that you should jump at anything so commonplace.” Her heart was hammering under the concentrated intensity of his gaze; and as if he realised suddenly that he might be betraying himself he said sarcastically: “As there are--I was told today--no less than six divorces pending in this set which my wife has the honour to entertain tonight, and as all are to intermarry, so to speak, when liberated, my conclusion in your case was probably due to the force of suggestion.” “Well, I forgive you if you promise to believe none of the absurd stories you are sure to hear. I am in love with freedom. Now tell me what you think of Ida? Isn’t she wonderful?” Gregory looked down the table at his wife sitting between the two most important men in Butte and entertaining both with animated dignity. She met his eyes and smiled brilliantly. She knew that he was proud of her; she had accomplished the second manœuvre in her flank attack: her first had been to put him at his ease. “Yes,” he said to Ora. “She is. It is almost beyond belief. And she is your handiwork!” The two might have been life-long intimates, and Ida a mere kinswoman of both, so little did the oddity of this discussion occur to Gregory at least.