I got into West Yellowstone late Thursday and caught a cab to the Old Faithful Lodge. It was as I remembered it, a fairy tale lodge made of wood, but such wood, shaped and polished and reflecting the candles and lights of a lobby that soared toward the heavens. The Capri and the Venetian and the others were beautiful and luxurious in their own way, but that was new money and the nouveau riche. This was old money, the Morgans and the Astors and the Carnegies, gone now and belonging to another time, an old hotel full of ghosts and dance cards and the many hearts that were broken after the ball was over.