"Oh, not so very busy. Father is a crank about system and order. He has
taught me to plan everything and work by the plans."

For the first time Norman had a glimmer of real interest in meeting her
father. For in those remarks of hers he recognized at once the rare
superior man--the man who works by plan, where the masses of mankind
either drift helplessly or are propelled by some superior force behind
them without which they would be, not the civilized beings they seem,
but even as the savage in the dugout or as the beast of the field. The
girl opened a door; a bright light streamed into the dim hallway.

"Father!" she called. "Here's Mr. Norman."

Norman saw, beyond the exquisite profile of the girl's head and figure,
a lean tallish old man, dark and gray, whose expression proclaimed him
at first glance no more in touch with the affairs of active life in the
world than had he been an inhabitant of Mars.

Mr. Hallowell gave his caller a polite glance and handshake--evidence of
merest surface interest in him, of amiable patience with an intruder.
Norman saw in the neatness of his clothing and linen further proof of
the girl's loving care. For no such abstracted personality as this would
ever bother about such things for himself. These details, however,
detained Norman only for a moment. In the presence of Hallowell it was
impossible not to concentrate upon him.

As we grow older what we are inside, the kind of thoughts we admit as
our intimates, appears ever more strongly in the countenance. This had
often struck Norman, observing the men of importance about him, noting