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.”