“Ora is an angel, and without her—but you know all that. Tell me—well, Gregory, I want a good old-fashioned compliment!”
His voice lost its bantering tone and became formal with gallantry: “You are, as ever, the handsomest woman in Montana. I shouldn’t wonder a bit if those New York reporters were right and that you are the handsomest woman in America.”
Ida looked for a long moment into his eyes. Again her brows met in a puzzled frown, this time because her singular lightness of spirit had fled abruptly. She was too proud, too far developed beyond the old Ida, to put forth the arts of the siren until they were alone; but she asked softly, and again with that almost childish naïveté:
“Do you really admire me?”
“You are all right,” he said with a heartiness that masked a sudden misgiving. “I must come in and take you to the theatre the next time a good show comes to town. Let me know. I’ll gratify my vanity by sitting beside you in a box——”
“There’s a play tomorrow night. Stay over!”
“I’m sorry. I don’t dare. Apex is sinking for all she’s worth. We may have a set-to any minute. It was a risk even to come away for a night.”
“Oh, do let me go out, and down into the mine——”
“I should think not. And do your best to keep Mrs. Blake in Butte for at least a week.”
“Well, let me go out when the danger is over. I long to see chalcopyrite in the vein. I saw some beautiful specimens at the School of Mines the other day. It looks like pure gold.”