Was it that Philip was too irresolute to cut either law or literature, and go in, single-minded, for a fortune of some kind, and a place?  Or was it merely that he had confidence in the winning character of his own qualities and was biding his time?  If it was a question of making himself acceptable to a woman—­say a woman like Evelyn—­was it not belittling to his own nature to plan to win her by what he could make rather than by what he was?

Probably the vision he had of Evelyn counted for very little in his halting decision.  “Why don’t you put her into a novel?” asked Mr. Brad one evening.  The suggestion was a shock.  Philip conveyed the idea pretty plainly that he hadn’t got so low as that yet.  “Ah, you fellows think you must make your own material.  You are higher-toned than old Dante.”  The fact was that Philip was not really halting.  Every day he was less and less in love with the law as it was practiced, and, courting reputation, he would much rather be a great author than a great lawyer.  But he kept such thoughts to himself.  He had inherited a very good stock of common-sense.  Apparently he devoted himself to his office work, and about the occupation of his leisure hours no one was in his confidence except Celia, and now and then, when he got something into print, Alice.  Professedly Celia was his critic, but really she was the necessary appreciator, for probably most writers would come to a standstill if there was no sympathetic soul to whom they could communicate, while they were fresh, the teeming fancies of their brains.

The winter wore along without any incident worth recording, but still fruitful for the future, as Philip fondly hoped.  And one day chance threw in his way another sensation.  Late in the afternoon of a spring day he was sent from the office to Mavick’s house with a bundle of papers to be examined and signed.

“You will be pretty sure to find him,” said Mr. Sharp, “at home about six.  Wait till you do see him.  The papers must be signed and go to Washington by the night mail.”

Mr. Mavick was in his study, and received Philip very civilly, as the messenger of his lawyers, and was soon busy in examining the documents, flinging now and then a short question to Philip, who sat at the table near him.

Suddenly there was a tap at the door, and, not waiting for a summons, a young girl entered, and stopped after a couple of steps.

“Oh, I didn’t know—­”

“What is it, dear?” said Mr. Mavick, looking up a moment, and then down at the papers.

“Why, about the coachman’s baby.  I thought perhaps—­” She had a paper in her hand, and advanced towards the table, and then stopped, seeing that her father was not alone.

Philip rose involuntarily.  Mr. Mavick looked up quickly.  “Yes, presently.  I’ve just now got a little business with Mr. Burnett.”