XXXIV
ON the following day they lunched at a large restaurant opposite the Bourse, a favourite resort of the two girls; it amused them to watch the keen clever business men of Genoa at their midday meal in leisurely conversation and enjoyment of their excellent food and wine; contrasting them with the American who took five minutes for lunch, achieving dyspepsia instead of nutriment, and possibly accomplishing less than a race which has been commercial and acquisitive since the dawn of its history. There is little real poverty in Genoa and great wealth.
They had come too late to secure one of the tables overlooking the Piazzi Defarrari, and were facing the windows, at one of the longer tables, when Valdobia, who sat opposite, rose with a word of apology and went behind them to greet a man with a pleasant English voice.
“Lord John Mowbray,” whispered Ida. “He’s all right, but, lord, I’ll be glad to get back to a country where a few men are plain mister.”
Nevertheless, as the Englishman bent over her with a delighted word of greeting, she lifted her heavy eyes to his with the expression of one whose long suppressed hopes have blossomed at last.
“I wish I could join you,” he said ruefully, “but I am with a party of friends.”
“Get rid of them after lunch,” murmured Ida, “and come with us. We are going to explore all those interesting little streets down in the gulch—that is to say the ravine, or whatever it was once—and it would be jolly to have you along.”
“I will,” he said, with fervour, “and I know what a gulch is. My brother is ranching in Wyoming, and I may join him there in a few months. I believe he also has interests in Butte.”
“Good! We’ll begin to get friendly right now. So long.” Valdobia returned to his chair, and she asked, “Is he a brother of your Wyoming friend?”
“He is, and no doubt we’ll go out together. Your Northwest must be the realest thing left in the world.”