“What is it?” He spoke eagerly. He, too, had risen, his eyes still on her face. Unconsciously he held his breath.
“Oh, you wouldn’t understand it I told you—and I haven’t the least desire to tell you. She will make you comfortable, do you credit when you are a rich man, spend your money royally. That is all you will ask of her. Now, I’ll go back.”
He was a step or two below her. Their eyes were on a level. He looked at her sombrely for a moment, then walked past her up the steps.
“You need not call a cab. I shall go home. I should only set them all talking if I appeared in the ballroom again. You can tell Mark that I didn’t feel well and that you took me home.”
They walked along the high terrace until they found a point of easy descent.
“What have I said to make you angry?” he asked.
Ora laughed with determined good humour. “It was not I. It was merely my sex that flared up. Please forget it.”
“I want to thank you for what you have done for Ida,” he said abruptly, and it was evident that the words cost him more than his former revelations. “It was a great thing for you to do.”
“Oh, Ida has become my most intimate friend. I have never enjoyed Butte so much as in these last few months.”
“Has she? And Mark is my best friend.” He jerked his head in annoyance; manifestly the remark had been too spontaneous. They were before her gate. She extended a limp hand, but he held it firmly. He was smiling again although he looked depressed.