“Mr. Hardinge says, will you see him in the library when you have done,” the former shot at Anthony over a shapely shoulder. “You can walk through the dining room to where he is beyond.” The library was a somber chamber: its long windows were draped with stiff folds of green velvet, its walls occupied by high bookcases with leaded glass doors and ornamental Gothic points under the ceiling. A massive desk was piled with papers, pamphlets, printed reports, comparative tables of figures, an hundred and one huddled details; the table beneath a glittering crystal chandelier was hardly better; even the floor was stacked with books about the chair where Anthony found his employer. The latter looked up absently from a printed sheet as Anthony entered. “Positively,” he pronounced, “there are not enough dominants to secure Mendel's position.” His expression was profoundly disturbed. “Yes, sir,” Anthony replied non-committally. “The consequences of that,” the other continued, “are beyond prediction.” Silence descended upon him; his fixed gaze seemed to be contemplating some unexpected catastrophe, some grave peril, opened before him in the still chamber. “I am at a temporary loss!” he ejaculated suddenly; “we are all at a loss... unless my experiments in pure descent warrant--” Suddenly he became aware of Anthony's presence. “Oh!” he said pleasantly; “glad you got fixed up. Say nothing more to Annot--it's all nonsense, taking it out of your salary. That's what I wanted to see you for,” he added; “what salary do you require? what did you get at your last place?” Anthony made a swift calculation of the distance to California, the probable cost of carriage. “I should like seventy-five,” he pronounced finally. His conscience suddenly and uncomfortably awoke in the presence of the other's unquestioning generosity. “Perhaps I'd better tell you that I don't intend to stay here long.... I am anxious to get to California.” But Rufus Hardinge had already forgotten him. “Seventy-five,” he had murmured, with a satisfied nod, and once more concentrated his attention upon the sheet in his hand. As Anthony returned through the dining room he found Annot Hardinge arranging a spray of scarlet verbena in a glass vase. “Has father spoken to you about the salary you are to get?” she asked. He paused, cap in hand. “I told him that you were positively not to get above eighty.” “I told him seventy-five. He seemed contented.” “He would have been contented if you had said seven hundred and fifty.” Then, to discountenance any criticism of her father's intelligence, she added: “He is a very famous biologist, you know. The people about here don't understand those things, but in London, in Paris, in Berlin, he is easily one of the greatest men alive. He is carrying the Mendelian theory to its absolute, logical conclusion.” “He said something about that to me,” Anthony commented; “it seemed to upset him.”