“My mother, as she was at about thirty,” Bruce remarked.
“Yes; I thought so. Somewhat older than when I knew her, but the look of youth is still there.”
“I prefer that to any other picture of her I have. She refused to be photographed in her later years—said she didn’t want me to think of her as old. And she never was that—could never have been.”
“I can well believe it,” said Mills softly. “Time deals gently with spirits like hers.”
“No one was ever like her,” said Bruce with feeling. “She made the world a kindlier and nobler place by living in it.”
“And you’re loyal to the ideal she set for you! You think of her, I’m sure, in all you do—in all you mean to do.”
“Yes, it helps—it helps a lot to feel that somewhere she knows and cares.”
Mills picked up a book, scanned the title page unseeingly and threw it down.
“I’ve just about killed an evening for you,” he said with a smile and put out his hand cordially. “My chauffeur is probably frozen.”
“You’ve been a big help!” replied Bruce. “It’s been fine to have you here. I’ll see Mr. Freeman tomorrow and go over the whole thing again. He may be able to squeeze the fountain out of the appropriation! May I tell him it’s your idea?”