Well, he had done nothing dishonorable.  And as he reviewed the bitter interview he began to console himself with the thought that he had not lost his temper, that he had said nothing to be regretted, nothing that he should not have said to the mother of the girl he loved.  There was an inner comfort in this, even if his life were ruined.

Mrs. Mavick, on the contrary, had not so good reason to be satisfied with herself.  It was a principle of her well-ordered life never to get into a passion, never to let herself go, never to reveal herself by intemperate speech, never to any one, except occasionally to her husband when his cold sarcasm became intolerable.  She felt, as soon as the door closed on Philip, that she had made a blunder, and yet in her irritation she committed a worse one.  She went at once to Evelyn’s room, resolved to make it perfectly sure that the Philip episode was ended.  She had had suspicions about her daughter ever since the Van Cortlandt dinner.  She would find out if they were justified, and she would act decidedly before any further mischief was done.  Evelyn was alone, and her mother kissed her fondly several times and then threw herself into an easy-chair and declared she was tired.

“My dear, I have had such an unpleasant interview.”

“I am sorry,” said Evelyn, seating herself on the arm of the chair and putting her arm round her mother’s neck.  “With whom, mamma?”

“Oh, with that Mr. Burnett.”  Mrs. Mavick felt a nervous start in the arm that caressed her.

“Here?”

“Yes, he came to see your father, I fancy, about some business.  I think he is not getting on very well.”

“Why, his book—­”

“I know, but that amounts to nothing.  There is not much chance for a lawyer’s clerk who gets bitten with the idea that he can write.”

“If he was in trouble, mamma,” said Evelyn, softly, “then you were good to him.”

“I tried to be,” Mrs. Mavick half sighed, “but you can’t do anything with such people” (by ‘such people’ Mrs. Mavick meant those who have no money) “when they don’t get on.  They are never reasonable.  And he was in such an awful bad temper.  You cannot show any kindness to such people without exposing yourself.  I think he presumes upon his acquaintance with your father.  It was most disagreeable, and he was so rude” (a little thrill in the arm again)—­“well, not exactly rude, but he was not a bit nice to me, and I am afraid I showed by my looks that I was irritated.  He was just as disagreeable as he could be.

“He met Lord Montague on the steps, and he had something spiteful to say about him.  I had to tell him he was presuming a good deal on his acquaintance, and that I considered his manner insulting.  He flung out of the house very high and mighty.”

“That was not a bit like him, mamma.”

“We didn’t know him.  That is all.  Now we do, and I am thankful we do.  He will never come here again.”