“Rather fast.  Not so fast, however, as we shall in the next three.  Science—­chemistry—­is going speedily to change all the conditions of life because it will turn topsy-turvy all the ways of producing things—­food, clothing, shelter.  Less than two generations ago men lived much as they had for thousands of years.  But it’s very different to-day.  It will be inconceivably different to-morrow.”

Norman could not get these ideas out of his brain.  He began to understand why Hallowell cared nothing about the active life of the day—­about its religion, politics, modes of labor, its habits of one creature preying upon another.  To-morrow, not religion, not politics, but chemistry, not priests nor politicians, but chemists, would change all that—­and change it by the only methods that compel.  An abstract idea of liberty or justice can be rejected, evaded, nullified.  But a telephone, a steam engine, a mode of prolonging life—­those realizations of ideas compel.

When Dorothy came, Norman went into the garden with her in a frame of mind so different from any he had ever before experienced that he scarcely recognized himself.  As the influence of the father’s glowing imagination of genius waned before the daughter’s physical loveliness and enchantment for him, he said to himself, “I’ll keep away from him.”  Why?  He did not permit himself to go on to examine into his reasons.  But he could not conceal them from himself quickly enough to hide the knowledge that they were moral.

“What is the matter with you to-day?” said Dorothy.  “You are not a bit interesting.”

“Interested, you mean,” he said with a smile of raillery, for he had long since discovered that she was not without the feminine vanity that commands the centering of all interest in the woman herself and resents any wandering of thought as a slur upon her own powers of fascination.

“Well, interested then,” said she.  “You are thinking about something else.”

“Not now,” he assured her.

But he left early.  No sooner had he got away from the house than the scientific dreaming vanished and he wished himself back with her again—­back where every glance at her gave him the most exquisite sensations.  And when he came the following day he apparently had once more restored her father to his proper place of a nonessential.  All that definitely remained of the day before’s impression was a certain satisfaction that he was aiding with his money an enterprise of greater value and of less questionable character than merely his own project.  But the powerful influences upon our life and conduct are rarely direct and definite.  He, quite unconsciously, had a wholly different feeling about Dorothy because of her father, because of what his new knowledge of and respect for her father had revealed and would continue to reveal to him as to the girl herself—­her training, her inheritance, her character that could not but be touched with the splendor of the father’s noble genius.  And long afterward, when the father as a distinct personality had been almost forgotten, Norman was still, altogether unconsciously, influenced by him—­powerfully, perhaps decisively influenced.  Norman had no notion of it, but ever after that talk in the laboratory, Dorothy Hallowell was to him Newton Hallowell’s daughter.