“The relations existing between us are strained; he may at any moment send me from the house for good and all.” Barbara laughed. “I am quite sure he is guiltless of any such intention.” “I regret to say that I am not.” Philip regarded Mr. Gerard as a person of one idea, and that invariably a wrong one. It was neither safe nor agreeable to be so at his mercy, for he held Philip's happiness in the hollow of his hand, and that young gentleman was much oppressed by the suspicion that he was not popular with Barbara's parent. When he questioned her she always assured him that her father respected him most thoroughly, but Philip doubted this. It must be admitted that now and then he detected a pugnacious quality in Mr. Gerard's manner toward him, which he stubbornly declined to notice or take exception to, as every other consideration was minor to the great one of gaining time in which to place himself beyond the reach of interference, so he put his pride in his pocket and strove to prevent a clash. Mr. Gerard appeared suddenly in the doorway. “I wish you would come with me into the library, Philip,” he said. “There is a little matter I should like to discuss with you. Barbara will, I am sure, excuse you for a few moments.” Philip came to his feet on the instant. The parable of the spider and the fly presented itself to him. “How do you do,” he said. He was not at his best when Mr. Gerard was about. “Just follow me into the library, if you please.” For Philip was gazing stupidly at him. “Oh, certainly.” From the door he glanced back at Barbara, and she saw that his face was clouded with apprehension. While she was wondering what it all meant, and what her father could have to say to Philip, there drifted in to her the murmur of their lowered voices, coming from the room that had conferred upon it the name of library in recognition of the fact that its furniture consisted in the main of a desk, some leather-covered chairs given over to decay, and a bookcase, containing an encyclopedia, a dictionary, and by actual count ninety-six novels. The room was also adorned—as the complete triumph of intellectuality—by a bust of Shakespeare. Here Mr. Gerard was supposed to do his thinking. Barbara's mother was an invalid and seldom left her room. This was another tangle in the snarled arrangement of Philip's hopes, for Barbara's father had severe Spartan ideas on the duties of children to their parents. And Mrs. Gerard was so busy with her symptoms, real or imaginary, that she never concerned herself in domestic matters. She left all that to her husband, who ran things with a high and often heavy hand. Barbara controlled her curiosity as best she could. Finally the conference was at an end. She heard her father remark in his ordinary strident tones: “You appreciate the justice of my course, Philip.” A few minutes later, Philip reentered the parlor. “What is it?” she asked quickly.