“That happens, of course, between fathers and sons,” Bruce replied. “Mr. Mills——”
He paused, took a cigarette from his case and put it back. He was by turns perplexed, annoyed, angry and afraid—afraid that he might in some way betray himself.
“Mr. Mills is a curious person,” Constance went on. “He seems to me like a man who lives alone in a formal garden with high walls on four sides and has learned to ignore the roar of the world outside—a prisoner who carries the key of his prison-house but can’t find the lock!”
Bruce bent his head toward her, intent upon her words. He hadn’t thought her capable of anything so imaginative. Some reply was necessary; he would make another effort to get rid of a subject that both repelled and fascinated him.
“I suppose we’re all born free; if we find ourselves shut in it’s because we’ve built the walls ourselves.”
“How about my prison-house?” she asked. “Do you suppose I can ever escape?”
“Why should you? Don’t you like your garden?”
“Not always; no! It’s a little stifling sometimes!”
“Then push the walls back a little! It’s a good sign, isn’t it, when we begin to feel cramped?”
“You’re doing a lot better! I begin to feel more hopeful about you. You really could be a great consolation to me if—if you weren’t so busy!”