The girl was slender, but not tall.  Her figure had her mother’s grace, but not its suggestion of yielding suppleness.  She was an undoubted brunette—­complexion olive, hair very dark, almost black except in the sunlight, and low on her forehead-chin a little strong, and nose piquant to say the least of it.  Certainly features not regular nor classic.  The mouth, larger than her mother’s, had full lips, the upper one short, and admirable curves, strong in repose, but fascinating when she smiled.  A face not handsome, but interesting.  And the eyes made you hesitate to say she was not handsome, for they were large, of a dark hazel and changeable, eyes that flashed with merriment, or fell into sadness under the long eyelashes; and it would not be safe to say that they could not blaze with indignation.  Not a face to go wild about, but when you felt her character through it, a face very winning in its dark virgin purity.

“I do wonder where she came from?” Mrs. Mavick was saying to herself, as she threw herself upon a couch in her own room and took up the latest Spanish novel.

IX

Celia Howard had been, in a way, Philip’s inspiration ever since the days when they quarreled and made up on the banks of the Deer field.  And a fortunate thing for him it was that in his callow years there was a woman in whom he could confide.  Her sympathy was everything, even if her advice was not always followed.  In the years of student life and preparation they had not often met, but they were constant and painstaking correspondents.  It was to her that he gave the running chronicle of his life, and poured out his heart and aspirations.  Unconsciously he was going to school to a woman, perhaps the most important part of his education.  For, though in this way he might never hope to understand woman, he was getting most valuable knowledge of himself.

As a guide, Philip was not long in discovering that Celia was somewhat uncertain.  She kept before him a very high ideal; she expected him to be distinguished and successful, but, her means varied from time to time.  Now she would have him take one path and now another.  And Philip learned to read in this varying advice the changes in her own experience.  There was a time when she hoped he would be a great scholar:  there was no position so noble as that of a university professor or president.  Then she turned short round and extolled the business life:  get money, get a position, and then you can study, write books, do anything you like and be independent.  Then came a time—­this was her last year in college —­when science seemed the only thing.  That was really a benefit to mankind:  create something, push discovery, dispel ignorance.

“Why, Phil, if you could get people to understand about ventilation, the necessity of pure air, you would deserve a monument.  And, besides—­this is an appeal to your lower nature—­science is now the thing that pays.”  Theology she never considered; that was just now too uncertain in its direction.  Law she had finally approved; it was still respectable; it was a very good waiting-ground for many opportunities, and it did not absolutely bar him from literature, for which she perceived he had a sneaking fondness.