“I studied grammar at school,” interrupted Ida haughtily. “What do you take Butte for, anyhow. It may be a mining camp, and jay enough compared with your old Boston, but I guess we learn something mor’n the alphabet at all these big red brick schoolhouses we’ve got--Montana’s famous for its grand schoolhouses----” “Yes, yes, my dear Mrs. Compton. But, you know, one forgets so quickly. And then so many of you don’t stay in school long enough. How old were you when you left?” “Fifteen. Ma wouldn’t let me go to the High.” “Precisely. Well, I will adhere to my original purpose, and defer books until our next lesson. Perhaps you would like me to tell you something more of our Eastern methods of speech--not only words, but--er--syntax----” “Oh, hang your old East! You make me feel downright patriotic.” Professor Whalen was conscious that it was a distinct pleasure to make those fine eyes flash. “One would think we were not all Americans,” he said with a smile. “Well, I guess you look upon America as East and West too. Loads of young surveyors and mining men come out here to make their pile, and at first Montana ain’t good enough to black their boots, but it soon takes the starch out of ’em. No use puttin’ on dog here. It don’t work.” “Oh, I assure you it’s merely a difference of manner--of--er tradition. We--and I in particular--find your West most interesting--and significant. I--ah--regard it as the great furnace under our civilization.” “And we are the stokers! I like your impudence!” He had no desire to lose this remunerative pupil, whose crude mind worked more quickly than his own. She was now really angry and he made a mild dive in search of his admitted tact. “My dear lady, you put words into my mouth that emanate from your own clever brain, not from my merely pedantic one. Not only have I the highest respect for the West, and for Montana in particular, but please remember that the contempt of the East for the West is merely passive, negative, when compared with the lurid scorn of the West for the East. ‘Effete’ is its mildest term of opprobrium. I doubt if your ‘virile’ Westerner believes us to be really alive, in a condition to inhabit aught but a museum. Your men when they ‘make their pile’, or take a vacation, never dream of going to Boston, seldom, indeed, to Europe. They take the fastest train for New York--and by no means with a view to exploring that wilderness for its oases of culture----” “Well, I guess not!” cried Ida, her easy good nature restored. “All-night restaurants, something new in the way of girls--‘chickens’ and ‘squabs’--musical shows, watchin’ the sun rise--that’s their little old New York. They always come home shakin’ themselves like a Newfoundland puppy, or purrin’ like a cat full of cream, but talkin’ about the Great Free West, God’s Own Country, and the Big Western Heart. I’ve a friend who does manicurin’, and she knows ’em like old shoes.”