“My dear sir,” said Brad, who did not like this caricature of his friends, “you don’t make any allowance for the eccentricities of genius.”

“You would hit it nearer if you said I didn’t make allowance for the eccentricities without genius,” retorted Philip.

“Well,” replied Mr. Brad, taking his leave, “you don’t understand your world.  You go your own way and see where you will come out.”

And when Philip reflected on it, he wondered if it were not rash to offend those who had the public ear, and did up the personals and minor criticisms for the current prints.  He was evidently out of view.  No magazine paper of his had gained the slightest notice from these sublimated beings, who discovered a new genius every month.

A few nights after this conversation Mr. Brad was in uncommon spirits at dinner.

“Anything special turned up?” asked Philip.

“Oh, nothing much.  I’ve thrown away the chance of the biggest kind of a novel of American life.  Only it wouldn’t keep.  You look in the Spectrum tomorrow morning.  You’ll see something interesting.”

“Is it a—­” and Philip’s incredulous expression supplied the word.

“No, not a bit.  And the public is going to be deceived this time, sure, expecting a fake.  You know Mavick?”

“I’ve heard of him—­the operator, a millionaire.”

“A good many times.  Used to be minister or consul or something at Rome.  A great swell.  It’s about his daughter, Evelyn, a stunning girl about sixteen or seventeen—­not out yet.”

“I hope it’s no scandal.”

“No, no; she’s all right.  It’s the way she’s brought up—­shows what we’ve come to.  They say she’s the biggest heiress in America and a raving beauty, the only child.  She has been brought up like the Kohinoor, never out of somebody’s sight.  She has never been alone one minute since she was born.  Had three nurses, and it was the business of one of them, in turn, to keep an eye on her.  Just think of that.  Never was out of the sight of somebody in her life.  Has two maids now—­always one in the room, night and day.”

“What for?”

“Why, the parents are afraid she’ll be kidnapped, and held for a big ransom.  No, I never saw her, but I’ve got the thing down to a dot.  Wouldn’t I like to interview her, though, get her story, how the world looks to her.  Under surveillance for sixteen years!  The ’Prisoner of Chillon’ is nothing to it for romance.”

“Just the facts are enough, I should say.”

“Yes, facts make a good basis, sometimes.  I’ve got ’em all in, but of course I’ve worked the thing up for all it is worth.  You’ll see.  I kept it one day to try and get a photograph.  We’ve got the house and Mavick, but the girl’s can’t be found, and it isn’t safe to wait.  We are going to blow it out tomorrow morning.”

VI