When they went down to the dining-room Bruce found it less of an ordeal
than he had expected to sit at Mills’s table. Mills was a social
being; his courtesy was unfailing, and no doubt he was sincere in his
expressions of gratitude to Bruce for sharing his meal.
The table was lighted by four tapers in tall candlesticks of English
silver. The centerpiece was a low bowl of pink roses, the product
of the Deer Trail conservatories. Mills, in spite of his austere
preferences in other respects, deferred to changing fashions in
the furnishing of his table, to which he gave the smart touch of
a sophisticated woman. It was a way of amusing himself, and he
enjoyed the praise of the women who dined with him for his taste, the
discrimination he exercised in picking up novelties in exclusive New
York shops. Even when alone he enjoyed the contemplation of precious
silver and crystal, and the old English china in which he specialized.
He invited Bruce’s attention, as one connoisseur to another, to the
graceful lines and colors of the water glasses--a recent acquisition.
The food was excellent, but doubtless no better than Mills ate every
night, whether he dined alone or with Leila. The courses were served
unhurriedly; Franklin Mills was not a man one could imagine bolting his
food. Again Bruce found his dislike ebbing. The idea that the man was
his father only fleetingly crossed his mind. If Mills suspected the
relationship he was an incomparable actor....
“I’ve never warmed to the idea that America should be an asylum for the
scum of creation; it’s my Anglo-Saxon conceit, I suppose. You have the
look of the old American stock----”
“I suppose I’m a pretty fair American,” Bruce replied. “My home town is
Laconia--settled by Revolutionary soldiers; they left their imprint.
It’s a patriotic community.”
“Oh, yes; Laconia! Carroll was telling me that had been your home. He
has some relatives there himself.”
“Yes, I know them,” Bruce said, meeting Mills’s gaze carelessly. “The
fact is I know, or used to know, nearly everybody in the town.”
“Carroll may have told you that I had some acquaintance with the place
myself. That was a long time ago. I went there to look after some
business interests for my father. It was a part of my apprenticeship.
I seem to recall people of your name; Storrs is not so common--?”
“My father was John Storrs--a lawyer,” said Bruce in the tone of one
stating a fact unlikely to be of particular interest.
“Yes; John Storrs----” Mills repeated musingly. “I recall him very
well--and his wife--your mother--of course. Delightful people. I’ve
always remembered those months I spent there with a particular
pleasure. For the small place Laconia was then, there was a good deal
doing--dances and picnics. I remember your mother as the leading spirit
in all the social affairs. Is she----”
“Father and mother are both gone. My mother died a little more than a
year ago.”
“I’m very sorry,” Mills murmured sympathetically. “For years I had
hoped to go back to renew old acquaintances, but Laconia is a little
inaccessible from here and I never found it possible.”
Whether Mills had referred to his temporary residence in Laconia merely
to show how unimportant and incidental it was in his life remained a
question. But Bruce felt that if Mills could so lightly touch upon it,
he himself was equal to gliding over it with like indifference. Mills
asked with a smile whether Gardner’s Grove was still in existence, that
having been a favorite picnic ground, an amateurish sort of country
club where the Laconians used to have their dances. The oak trees there
were the noblest he had ever seen. Bruce expressed regret that the
grove was gone....
Mills was shrewd; and Bruce was aware that the finely formed head
across the table housed a mind that carefully calculated all the
chances of life even into the smallest details. He wondered whether
he had borne himself as well as Mills in the ordeal. The advantage
had been on Mills’s side; it was his house, his table. Possibly he had
been waiting for some such opportunity as this to sound the son of
Marian Storrs as to what he knew--hoped perhaps to surprise him into
some disclosure of the fact if she had ever, in a moment of weakness or
folly, spoken of him as other than a passing acquaintance.
“We’ll go down to the billiard room to smoke,” Mills remarked at the
end of the dinner. “We’ll have our coffee there.”
Easy chairs and a davenport at one end of the billiard room invited
to comfort. On the walls were mounted animal heads and photographs of
famous horses.
“Leila doesn’t approve of these works of art,” said Mills, seeing Bruce
inspecting them. “She thinks I ought to move them to the farm. They do
look out of place here. Sit where you like.”
He half sprawled on the davenport as one who, having dined to his
satisfaction and being consequently on good terms with the world,
wishes to set an example of informality to a guest. Bruce wondered
what Mills did on evenings he spent alone in the big house; tried to
visualize the domestic scene in the years of Mrs. Mills’s life.
“You see Shepherd occasionally?” Mills asked when the coffee had been
served. “The boy hasn’t quite found himself yet. Young men these
days have more problems to solve than we faced when I was your age.
Everything is more complicated--society, politics, everything. Maybe it
only seems so. Shep’s got a lot of ideas that seem wild to me. Can’t
imagine where he gets them. Social reforms and all that. I sometimes
think I made a mistake in putting him into business. He might have been
happier in one of the professions--had an idea once he wanted to be a
doctor, but I discouraged it. A mistake, perhaps.”
Mills’s manner of speaking of Shepherd was touched with a certain
remoteness. He appeared to invite Bruce’s comment, not in a spirit of
sudden intimacy, but as if he were talking with a man of his own years
who was capable of understanding his perplexities. It seemed to Bruce
in those few minutes that he had known Franklin Mills a very long
time. He was finding it difficult to conceal his embarrassment under
equivocal murmurs. But he pulled himself together to say cordially:
“Shepherd is a fine fellow, Mr. Mills. You can’t blame him for his
idealism. There’s a lot of it in the air.”
“He was not cut out for business,” Mills remarked. “Business is a
battle these days, and Shep isn’t a fighter.”
“Must the game be played in that spirit?” asked Bruce with a smile.
“Yes, if you want to get anywhere,” Mills replied grimly. “Shall we do
some billiards?”