Poor Leila! Poor, foolish, wilful, generous-hearted little girl! Her father was much too conspicuous for her little excursions among the shoals of folly to pass unremarked. Bruce found himself excusing and defending her latest escapade. She had taken refuge in the oblivion of alcohol as an escape from her troubles.... Something wrong somewhere. Shep and Leila both groping in the dark for the door of happiness and getting no help from their father in their search--a deplorable situation. Not altogether Franklin Mills’s fault; perhaps no one’s fault; just the way things happen, but no less tragic for all that. Bruce asked the janitor to bring in his meals, content to be alone, looking forward to a long day in which to brood over his plans for the memorial. He was glad that he had not run away from Franklin Mills. It was much better to have remained in the town, and more comfortable to have met Mills and the members of his family than to have lived in the same community speculating about them endlessly without ever knowing them. He knew them now all too well! Even Franklin Mills was emerging from the mists; Bruce began to think he knew what manner of man Mills was. Shepherd had opened his own soul to him; and Leila--Bruce made allowances for Leila and saw her merits with full appreciation. One thing was certain: he did not envy Franklin Mills or his children their lot; he coveted nothing they possessed. He thanked his stars that he had had the wit to reject Mills’s offer to help him into a business position of promise; to be under obligation of any sort to Franklin Mills would be intolerable. Through the afternoon he worked desultorily on his sketches of the Laconia memorial, enjoying the luxury of undisturbed peace. He began combining in a single drawing his memoranda of details; was so pleased with the result in crayon that he began a pen and ink sketch and was still at this when Henderson appeared, encased in a plaid overcoat that greatly magnified his circumference. “What’s responsible for this!” Bruce demanded. “Thanks for your hearty greeting! I called your office at five-minute intervals all day and that hard-boiled telephone girl said you hadn’t been there. All the clubs denied knowledge of your whereabouts, so I clambered into my palatial Plantagenet and sped out, expecting to find you sunk in mortal illness. You must stop drinking, son.” “That’s a good one from you! Please don’t sit on those drawings!” “My mistake. You’re terribly peevish. By the way--what was the row last night about Leila Mills?” Bud feigned deep interest in a cloisonné jar that stood on the table. “Well, what was?” asked Bruce. “I might have known you had something up your sleeve.”