The incident of this momentary meeting was, however, of great consequence.  There is no such feeder of love as the imagination.  And fortunate it was for Philip that his romance was left to grow in the wonder-working process of his own mind.  At first there had been merely a curiosity in regard to a person whose history and education had been peculiar.  Then the sight of her had raised a strange tumult in his breast, and his fancy began to play about her image, seen only at a distance and not many times, until his imagination built up a being of surpassing loveliness, and endowed with all the attractions that the poets in all ages have given to the sex that inspires them.  But this sort of creation in the mind becomes vague, and related to literature only, unless it is sustained by some reality.  Even Petrarch must occasionally see Laura at the church door, and dwell upon the veiled dreamer that passed and perhaps paused a moment to regard him with sad eyes.  Philip, no doubt, nursed a genuine passion, which grew into an exquisite ideal in the brooding of a poetic mind, but it might in time have evaporated into thin air, remaining only as an emotional and educational experience.  But this moment in Mr. Mavick’s library had given a solid body to his imaginations, and a more definite turn to his thought of her.

If, in some ordinary social chance, Philip had encountered the heiress, without this previous wonderworking of his imagination in regard to her, the probability is that he would have seen nothing especially to distinguish her from the other girls of her age and newness in social experience.  Certainly the thought that she was the possessor of uncounted millions would have been, on his side, an insuperable barrier to any advance.  But the imagination works wonders truly, and Philip saw the woman and not the heiress.  She had become now a distinct personality; to be desired above all things on earth, and that he should see her again he had no doubt.

This thought filled his mind, and even when he was not conscious of it gave a sort of color to life, refined his perceptions, and gave him almost sensuous delight in the masterpieces of poetry which had formerly appealed only to his intellectual appreciation of beauty.

He had not yet come to a desire to share his secret with any confidant, but preferred to be much alone and muse on it, creating a world which was without evil, without doubt, undisturbed by criticism.  In this so real dream it was the daily office work that seemed unreal, and the company and gossip of his club a kind of vain show.  He began to frequent the picture-galleries, where there was at least an attempt to express sentiment, and to take long walks to the confines of the city-confines fringed with all the tender suggestions of the opening spring.  Even the monotonous streets which he walked were illumined in his eyes, glorified by the fullness of life and achievement.  “Yes,” he said again