Her light laugh, charged with friendliness, followed him down the steps. She had made him forget himself, lifted him several times to heights he had never known before. He was sorry that he had not asked her further about the faith to which she had confessed, her God of the Blue Horizons. The young women he had known were not given to such utterances,--certainly not while playing very creditable golf! Her phrase added majesty to the universe, made the invisible God intelligible and credible. He felt that he could never again look at the heavens without recalling that phrase of hers. It wakened in him the sense of a need that he had never known before. It was as if she had interpreted some baffling passage in a mysterious book and clarified it. He must see her again; yes, very often he must see her. But on his way home a dark thought crossed his mind: “_What would Millicent say if she knew?_” CHAPTER EIGHT I Two weeks later Bud Henderson sought Bruce at Freeman’s office. Bruce looked up from his desk with a frown that cleared as he recognized his friend. With his cap pushed back on his head and buttoned up in a long ulster, Henderson eyed him stolidly and demanded to know what he was doing. “Going over some specifications; I might say I’m at work, if you knew what the word means.” “Thanks for the compliment, but it’s time to quit,” Henderson replied, taking a cigarette from a package on Bruce’s desk. “I happen to know your boss is playing handball this moment at the Athletic and he’ll never know you’ve skipped. I haven’t liked a certain look in your eye lately. You’re sticking too close to your job. Bill is pleased to death with your work, so you haven’t a thing to worry about. Get your bonnet and we’ll go out and see what we can stir up.” “I’m in a frame of mind to be tempted. But I ought to finish this stuff.” “Don’t be silly,” replied Bud, who was prowling about the room viewing the framed plans and drawings on the walls, peering into cabinets, unrolling blue prints merely to fling them aside with a groan of disgust. “My God! It doesn’t seem possible that Bill Freeman would put his name to such things!” “Don’t forget this is a _private_ office, Mr. Henderson. What’s agitating your bean?” “Thought I’d run you up to the art institute to look at some Finnish work they’re showing. Perhaps it’s Hottentotish; or maybe it’s Eskimo art. We’ve got to keep in touch with the world art movement.” Henderson yawned. “Try again; I pant for real excitement,” said Bruce, who was wondering whether his friend really had noticed signs of his recent worry. Henderson, apparently intent upon a volume of prints of English country houses, swung round as Bruce, in putting on his overcoat, knocked over a chair. He crossed the room and laid his hands on Bruce’s broad shoulders.