As Bruce was driving past the Mills’s residence one evening several weeks later, Carroll hailed him. Mills, it appeared, had driven out with Carroll and the limousine waited at the curb to carry the secretary on home. Carroll asked Bruce whether he would go with him to a lecture at the art institute the following night; a famous painter was to speak and it promised to be an interesting occasion. Mills lingered while the young men arranged to meet at the club for dinner before the lecture, and Bruce was about to climb back into his car when Mills said detainingly:
“Storrs, won’t you have pity on me? Carroll’s just refused to dine with me. My daughter’s going out and there’s just myself. Do you think you could stand it?”
“The soil of the day is upon me!” said Bruce. “But——”
He very much wished to refuse, but the invitation was cordially given, and taken by surprise, he was without a valid excuse for declining.
“You don’t need to dress and you may leave the moment you’re bored,” said Mills amiably.
“Sorry, but I’ve got to run,” said Carroll. “I’ll send your car right back, Mr. Mills. Thank you. I envy you two your quiet evening!”
Mills led the way upstairs, opened the door of one of the bedrooms and turned on the lights.
“The room’s supposed to be in order—it’s my son’s old room. Ring if you don’t find what you want.”
Bruce closed the door and stared about him.
Shepherd’s old room! It was a commodious chamber, handsomely furnished. The bath was a luxurious affair. As he drew off his coat Bruce’s mind turned back to his little room in the old frame house in Laconia; the snowy window draperies his mother always provided, and the other little tributes of her love, fashioned by her own hands, that adorned the room in which he had dreamed the long, long dreams of youth. Through the dormer windows he had heard the first bird song in the spring, and on stormy nights in winter had sunk to sleep to the north wind’s hoarse shout through the elms and maples in the yard.