But if law and literature were to him little more than unsubstantial dreams, the love he cherished was, in the cool examination of reason, preposterous.  What! the heiress of so many millions, brought up doubtless in the expectation of the most brilliant worldly alliance, the heiress with the world presently at her feet, would she look at a lawyer’s clerk and an unsuccessful scribbler?  Oh, the vanity of youth and the conceit of intellect!

Down in his heart Philip thought that she might.  And he went on nursing this vain passion, knowing as well as any one can know the social code, that Mr. Mavick and Mrs. Mavick would simply laugh in his face at such a preposterous idea.  And yet he knew that he had her sympathy in his ambition, that to a certain extent she was interested in him.  The girl was too guileless to conceal that.  And then suppose he should become famous—­well, not exactly famous, but an author who was talked about, and becoming known, and said to be promising?  And then he could fancy Mavick weighing this sort of reputation in his office scales against money, and Mrs. Mavick weighing it in her boudoir against social position.  He was a fool to think of it.  And yet, suppose, suppose the girl should come to love him.  It would not be lightly.  He knew that, by looking into her deep, clear, beautiful eyes.  There were in them determination and tenacity of purpose as well as the capability of passion.  Heavens and earth, if that girl once loved, there was a force that no opposition could subdue!  That was true.  But what had he to offer to evoke such a love?

In those days Philip saw much of Celia, who at length had given up teaching, and had come to the city to try her experiment, into which she was willing to embark her small income.  She had taken a room in the midst of poverty and misery on the East Side, and was studying the situation.

“I am not certain,” she said, “whether I or any one else can do anything, or whether any organization down there can effect much.  But I will find out.”

“Aren’t you lonesome—­and disgusted?” asked Philip.

“Disgusted?  You might as well be disgusted with one thing as another.  I am generally disgusted with the way things go.  But, lonely?  No, there is too much to do and to learn.  And do you know, Philip, that people are more interesting over there, more individual, have more queer sorts of character.  I begin to believe, with a lovely philanthropist I know, who had charge of female criminals, that ’wicked women are more interesting than good women.’”

“You have struck a rich mine of interest in New York, then.”

“Don’t be cynical, Phil.  There are different kinds of interest.  Stuff!  But I won’t explain.”  And then, abruptly changing the subject, “Seems to me you have something on your mind lately.  Is it the novel?”

“Perhaps.”

“The publishers haven’t decided?”

“I am afraid they have.”