“Not a bit. It will be immense fun. Good-bye.”
On that same morning Ora went to Butte. She had telephoned to Ida, and Mowbray met her at the train with the limousine.
“Mrs. Compton had to go to some charity meeting or other,” he said, as they shook hands warmly. “I am to drive you about for an hour.”
This was better fortune than Ora, who possessed little of Ida’s patience and talent for the waiting game, had dared to anticipate.
“How jolly!” Her face lost its traces of a sleepless night as it flashed with hope and enthusiasm. “And after that dreadful train! Drive to the Gardens,” she said to the chauffeur.
She pointed out Anaconda Hill as they passed under that famous portal, and the shaft houses of other mines, suggesting that he go down with the geologists when they made the inevitable descent. “But you will find your visit to Mr. Compton’s mine more satisfactory,” she added lightly. “You will see more ore in the vein. How do you like him?”
Mowbray growled something in his thick inarticulate English voice, and Ora grasped her opportunity. She turned to him with the uncompromising directness her sinuous mind knew so well how to assume.
“Take me into your confidence,” she said peremptorily. “I can help you. At all events keep you from making any mistakes with Ida. She is what is called a difficult proposition. Are you in love with her?”
Mowbray turned a deep brick-red and frowned, but he answered intelligibly: “You know jolly well I am.”