“I’m going to keep Mr. Storrs just a moment longer,” said Millicent. “Leila said her father was perishing somewhere and I want Mr. Storrs to meet him.” “Yes; certainly,” said Bruce. He walked beside her into the big lounge, where many of the older guests were gathered. “Poor Mr. Mills!” said Millicent after a quick survey of the room. “There he is, listening to one of Mr. Tasker’s interminable yarns.” She led the way toward a group of men, one of whom was evidently nearing the end of a long story. One of his auditors, a dark man of medium height and rather stockily built, was listening with an air of forced attention. His grayish hair was brushed smoothly away from a broad forehead, his neatly trimmed mustache was a trifle grayer than his hair. Millicent and Bruce fell within the line of his vision, and his face brightened instantly as he nodded to the girl and waved his hand. The moment the story was ended he crossed to them, his eyes bright with pleasure and a smile on his face. “I call it a base desertion!” he exclaimed. “Leila brings me here and coolly parks me. A father gets mighty little consideration these days!” “Don’t scold! Mr. Mills--let me present Mr. Storrs.” “I’m very glad to meet you, Mr. Storrs,” said Mills with quiet cordiality. He swept Bruce with a quick, comprehensive scrutiny. “Mr. Storrs has lately moved here,” Millicent explained. “I congratulate you, Mr. Storrs, on having fallen into good hands.” “Oh, Miss Harden is taking splendid care of me!” Bruce replied. “She’s quite capable of doing that!” Mills returned. Bruce was studying Franklin Mills guardedly. A man of reserves and reticences, not a safe subject for quick judgments. His manner was somewhat listless now that the introduction had been accomplished; and perhaps aware of this, he addressed several remarks to Bruce, asking whether the music was all that the jazzy age demanded; confessed with mock chagrin that his dancing days were over. “You only think they are! Mr. Mills really dances very well. You’d be surprised, Mr. Storrs, considering how venerable he is!” “That’s why I don’t dance!” Mills retorted with a rueful grin. “‘Considering his age’ is the meanest phrase that can be applied to a man of fifty.” Bud Henderson here interrupted them, declaring that dozens of people were disconsolate because Bruce had concealed himself. “Of course you must go!” said Millicent. “I hope to meet you again,” Mills remarked as Bruce bowed to him. “Thank you, Mr. Mills,” said Bruce. He was conscious once more of Mills’s intent scrutiny. It seemed to him as he walked away that Mills’s eyes followed him. “What’s the matter, old top?” Bud demanded. “You’re not tired?” “No; I’m all right,” Bruce replied, though his heart was pounding hard; and feeling a little giddy, he laid his hand on Henderson’s arm. CHAPTER FIVE I