“So it would.  And that is what I complain of in such ‘art’ as this.  I don’t know what has got into you, Phil.  I never saw you so exuberant.  You are pleased with everything.  Have you had a rise in the office?  Have you finished your novel?”

“Neither.  No rise.  No novel.  But Tweedle is getting friendly.  Threw an extra job in my way the other day.  Do you think I’d better offer my novel, when it is done, to Tweedle?”

“Tweedle, indeed!”

“Well, one of our clients is one of the great publishing firms, and Tweedle often dines with the publisher.”

“For shame, Phil!”

Philip laughed.  “At any rate, that is no meaner than a suggestion of Brad’s.  He says if I will just weave into it a lot of line scenery, and set my people traveling on the great trunk, stopping off now and then at an attractive branch, the interested railroads would gladly print it and scatter it all over the country.”

“No doubt,” said Celia, sinking down upon a convenient seat.  “I begin to feel as if there were no protection for anything.  And, Phil, that great monster of a Mavick, who is eating up the country, isn’t he a client also?”

“Occasionally only.  A man like Mavick has his own lawyers and judges.”

“Did you ever see him?”

“Just glimpses.”

“And that daughter of his, about whom such a fuss was made, I suppose you never met her?”

“Oh, as I wrote you, at the opera; saw her in her box.”

“And—?”

“Oh, she’s rather a little thing; rather dark, I told you that; seems devoted to music.”

“And you didn’t tell what she wore.”

“Why, what they all wear.  Something light and rather fluffy.”

“Just like a man.  Is she pretty?”

“Ye-e-s; has that effect.  You’d notice her eyes.”  If Philip had been frank he would have answered,

“I don’t know.  She’s simply adorable,” and Celia would have understood all about it.

“And probably doesn’t know anything.  Yes, highly educated?  I heard that.  But I’m getting tired of ‘highly educated’; I see so many of them.  I’ve been making them now for years.  Perhaps I’m one of them.  And where am I?  Don’t interrupt.  I tell you it is a relief to come across a sweet, womanly ignoramus.  What church does she go to?”

“Who?”

“That Mavick girl.”

“St. Thomas’, I believe.”

“That’s good—­that’s devotional.  I suppose you go there too, being brought up a Congregationalist?”

“At vespers, sometimes.  But, Celia, what is the matter with you?  I thought you didn’t care—­didn’t care to belong to anything?”

“I?  I belong to everything.  Didn’t I write you reams about my studies in psychology?  I’ve come to one conclusion.  There are only two persons in the world who stand on a solid foundation, the Roman Catholic and the Agnostic.  The Roman Catholic knows everything, the Agnostic doesn’t know anything.”