And he knew everybody, young and old, at doorways, in the fields or gardens, and had for every one a hail and a greeting.  How he enjoyed it all, and his self-consciousness added to his pleasure, as he swung along in his well-fitting city clothes, broad-shouldered and erect—­it is astonishing how much a tailor can do for a man who responds to his efforts.  It is a pleasure to come across such a hero as this in real life, and not have to invent him, as the saying is, out of the whole cloth.  Philip enjoyed the world, and he enjoyed himself, because it was not quite his old self, the farmer’s boy going on an errand.  There must be knowledge all along the street that he was in the great law office of Hunt, Sharp & Tweedle.  And, besides, Philip’s name must be known to all the readers of magazines in the town as a writer, a name in more than one list of “contributors.”  That was fame.  Translated, however, into country comprehension it was something like this, if he could have heard the comments after he had passed by: 

“Yes, that’s Phil Burnett, sure enough; but I’d hardly know him; spruced up mightily.  I wonder what he’s at?”

“I heard he was down in New York trying to law it.  I heard he’s been writin’ some for newspapers.  Accordin’ to his looks, must pay a durn sight better’n farmin’.”

“Well, I always said that boy wa’n’t no skeezics.”

Almost the first question Philip asked Alice on his return was about the new inn, the Peacock Inn.

“There seemed a good deal of stir about it as I passed.”

“Why, I forgot to tell you about it.  It’s the great excitement.  Rivervale is getting known.  The Mavicks are there.  I hear they’ve taken pretty much the whole of it.”

“The Mavicks?

“Yes, the New York Mavicks, that you wrote us about, that were in the paper.”

“How long have they been there?”

“A week.  There is Mrs. Mavick and her daughter, and the governess, and two maids, and a young fellow in uniform—­yes, livery—­and a coachman in the same, and a stableful of horses and carriages.  It upset the village like a circus.  And they say there’s a French chef in white cap and apron, who comes to the side-door and jabbers to the small boys like fireworks.”

“How did it come about?”

“Naturally, I guess; a city family wanting a quiet place for summer in the country.  But you will laugh.  Patience first discovered it.  One day, sitting at the window, she saw a two-horse buggy driven by the landlord of the Peacock, and a gentleman by his side.  ’Well, I wonder who that is-city man certainly.  And wherever is he going?  May be a railroad man.  But there is nothing the matter with the railroad.  Shouldn’t wonder if he is going to see the tunnel.  If it was just that, the landlord wouldn’t drive him; he’d send a man.  And they keep stopping and pointing and looking round.  No, it isn’t the railroad, it’s scenery.  And what can a man like that want with scenery?