When Philip returned to town, the city was still a social desert, and he plunged into the work piled up on his desk, the never-ceasing accumulation of manuscripts, most of them shells which the workers have dredged up from the mud of the literary ocean, in which the eager publisher is always expecting to find pearls.  Even Celia was still in the country, and Philip’s hours spared from drudgery were given to the new story.  His days, therefore, passed without incident, but not without pleasure.  For whatever annoyances the great city may have usually, it is in the dull season—­that is, the season of its summer out-of-doors animation—­a most attractive and, even stimulating place for the man who has an absorbing pursuit, say a work in creative fiction.  Undisturbed by social claims or public interests, the very noise and whirl of the gay metropolis seem to hem him in and protect the world of his own imagination.

The first disturbing event in this serenity was the report of the Mavick ball, already referred to, and the interpretation put upon it by the newspapers.  In this light his plans seemed the merest moonshine.  What became of his fallacious hope of waiting when events were driving on at this rate?  What chance had he in such a social current?  Would Evelyn be strong enough to stem it and to wait also?  And to wait for what?  For the indefinite and improbable event of a poor author, hardly yet recognized as an author, coming into position, into an income (for that was the weak point in his aspirations) that would not be laughed at by the millionaire.  When he coolly considered it, was it reasonable to expect that Mr. and Mrs. Mavick would ever permit Evelyn to throw away the brilliant opportunity for their daughter which was to be the crowning end of their social ambition?  The mere statement of the proposition was enough to overwhelm him.

That this would be the opinion of the world he could not doubt.  He felt very much alone.  It was not, however, in any resolve to make a confidante of Celia, but in an absolute need of companionship, that he went to see if she had returned.  That he had any personal interest in this ball he did not intend to let Celia know, but talk with somebody he must.  Of his deep affection for this friend of his boyhood, there was no doubt, nor of his knowledge of her devotion to his interests.  Why, then, was he reserved with her upon the absorbing interest of his life?

Celia had returned, before the opening of the medical college, full of a new idea.  This was nothing new in her restless nature; but if Philip had not been blinded by the common selfishness of his sex, he might have seen in the gladness of her welcome of him something more than mere sisterly affection.

“Are you real glad to see me, Phil?  I thought you might be lonesome by this time in the deserted city.”

“I was, horribly.”  He was still holding her hand.  “Without a chance to talk with you or Alice, I am quite an orphan.”