“Leila, haven’t you gone yet?” exclaimed Mills, appearing suddenly in the room.
“No, Dada! I was just kidding Bruce a little. Hope you have a nice dinner! Don’t be too solemn, and don’t scold your guest the way you do me. Yes, I’ve got my key and every little thing. Good-night. Come and see me sometime, Bruce.” She lifted her face for her father to kiss, paused in the doorway to shake her fist at Bruce and tripped down the hall singing.
“Do pardon me for keeping you waiting,” said Mills. “I had a New York call and the connection was bad. Let’s see what we have here——”
“Allow me, sir——”
As Bruce gave the drinks a supplemental shake Mills inspected the two glasses, ostensibly to satisfy himself that the housekeeping staff had properly cared for them, but really, Bruce surmised, to see whether Leila had been tippling.
II
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.”