Bruce forgot that there was any tie between them; Laconia became only a place where a soldiers’ memorial was to be constructed. Mills’s attitude toward the project was marked by the restraint, the diffidence of a man of breeding wary of offending but eager to help. Bruce had seen at once the artistic value of the fountain. He left Mills at the drawing table and paced the floor, pondering it. The look of weariness left Mills’s face. He was watching with frankly admiring eyes the tall figure, the broad, capable shoulders, the finely molded head, the absorbed, perplexed look in the handsome face. Not like Shep; not like any other young man he knew was this Bruce Storrs. He had not expected to remain more than ten minutes, but he was finding it difficult to leave. Remembering that he had a guest, Bruce glanced at Mills and caught the look in his face. For a moment both were embarrassed. “Do pardon me!” Bruce exclaimed quickly. “I was just trying to see my way through a thing or two. I’m afraid I’m boring you.” Mills murmured a denial and took a cigarette from the box Bruce extended. “How much money is there to spend on this? I was just thinking that that’s an important point. Public work of this sort is often spoiled by lack of funds.” “Three hundred thousand is the limit. Mr. Freeman warns me that it’s hardly enough for what I propose, and that I’ve got to do some trimming.” He drew from a drawer the terms of the competition and the specifications, and smoked in silence while Mills looked them over. “It’s all clear enough. It’s a joint affair--the county does half and the rest is a popular subscription?” “Yes; the local committee are fine people; too bad they haven’t enough to do the thing just right,” Bruce replied. “Of course I mean the way I’d like to do it--with your idea of the fountain that I’d rejoice to steal!” “That’s a joke--that I could offer a trained artist any suggestion of real value!” Bruce was finding his caller a very different Franklin Mills from the man he had talked with in the Jefferson Avenue house, and not at all the man whom, in his rôle of country squire, he had seen at Deer Trail. Mills was enjoying himself; there was no question of that. He lighted a cigar--the cigar he usually smoked at home before going to bed. “You will not be known as a competitor; your plans will go in anonymously?” he inquired. “Yes; that’s stipulated,” Bruce replied. Returning to the plans--they seemed to have a fascination for Mills--one of his questions prompted Bruce to seize a pencil and try another type of entrance. Mills stood by, watching the free swift movement of the strong hand. “I’m not so sure that’s better than your first idea. I’ve always heard that a first inspiration is likely to be the best--providing always that it is an inspiration! I’d give a lot if I could do what you’ve just done with that pencil. I suppose it’s a knack; you’re born with it. You probably began young; such talent shows itself early.”