“Eh, what did he want?” said Mavick, surlily.

Carmen looked up surprised.  “What does anybody after a reception call for?”

“The Lord only knows.”

“He is the funniest little man,” Evelyn ventured to say.

“That is no way, child, to speak of the son of a duke,” said Mavick, relaxing a little.

Carmen did not like the tone in which this was said, but she prudently kept silent.  And presently Evelyn continued: 

“He asked for you, papa, and said he wanted to pay his respects.”

“I am glad he wants to pay anything,” was the ungracious answer.  Still Evelyn was not to be put down.

“It was such a bright day in the Park.  What were you doing all day, papa?”

“Why, my dear, I was engaged in Research; you will be pleased to know.  Looking after those ten millions.”

When the dinner was over, Carmen followed Mr. Mavick to his study.

“What is the matter, Tom?”

“Nothing uncommon.  It’s a beastly hole down there.  The Board used to be made up of gentlemen.  Now there are such fellows as Ault, a black-hearted scoundrel.”

“But he has no influence.  He is nothing socially,” said Carmen.

“Neither is a wolf or a cyclone.  But I don’t care to talk about him.  Don’t you see, I don’t want to be bothered?”

While these great events were taking place Philip was enjoying all the tremors and delights of expectation which attend callow authorship.  He did not expect much, he said to himself, but deep down in his heart there was that sweet hope, which fortunately always attends young writers, that his would be an exceptional experience in the shoal of candidates for fame, and he was secretly preparing himself not to be surprised if he should “awake one morning and find himself famous.”

The first response was from Celia.  She wrote warm-heartedly.  She wrote at length, analyzing the characters, recalling the striking scenes, and praising without stint the conception and the working out of the character of the heroine.  She pointed out the little faults of construction and of language, and then minimized them in comparison with the noble motive and the unity and beauty of the whole.  She told Philip that she was proud of him, and then insisted that, when his biography, life, and letters was published, it would appear, she hoped, that his dear friend had just a little to do with inspiring him.  It was exactly the sort of letter an author likes to receive, critical, perfectly impartial, and with entire understanding of his purpose.  All the author wants is to be understood.

The letter from Alice was quite of another sort, a little shy in speaking of the story, but full of affection.  “Perhaps, dear Phil,” she wrote, “I ought not to tell you how much I like it, how it quite makes me blush in its revelation of the secrets of a New England girl’s heart.  I read it through fast, and then I read it again slowly.  It seemed better even the second time.  I do think, Phil, it is a dear little book.  Patience says she hopes it will not become common; it is too fine to be nosed about by the ordinary.  I suppose you had to make it pathetic.  Dear me! that is just the truth of it.  Forgive me for writing so freely.  I hope it will not be long before we see you.  To think it is done by little Phil!”