Of course Philip wrote to Celia about his vacation intimacy with the Mavicks.  It was no news to her that the Mavicks were spending the summer there; all the world knew that, and society wondered what whim of Carmen’s had taken her out of the regular summer occupations and immured her in the country.  Not that it gave much thought to her, but, when her name was mentioned, society resented the closing of the Newport house and the loss of her vivacity in the autumn at Lenox.  She is such a hand to set things going, don’t you know?  Mr. Mavick never made a flying visit to his family—­and he was in Rivervale twice during the season—­that the newspapers did not chronicle his every movement, and attribute other motives than family affection to these excursions into New England.  Was the Central system or the Pennsylvania system contemplating another raid?  It could not be denied that the big operator’s connection with any great interest raised suspicion and often caused anxiety.

Naturally, thought Celia, in such a little village, Philip would fall in with the only strangers there, so that he was giving her no news in saying so.  But there was a new tone in his letters; she detected an unusual reserve that was in itself suspicious.  Why did he say so much about Mrs. Mavick and the governess, and so little about the girl?

“You don’t tell me,” she wrote, “anything about the Infant Phenomenon.  And you know I am dying to know.”

This Philip resented.  Phenomenon!  The little brown girl, with eyes that saw so much and were so impenetrably deep, and the mobile face, so alert and responsive.  If ever there was a natural person, it was Evelyn.  So he wrote: 

“There is nothing to tell; she is not an infant and she is not a phenomenon.  Only this:  she has less rubbish in her mind than any person you ever saw.  And I guess the things she does not know about life are not worth knowing.”

“I see,” replied Celia; “poor boy! it’s the moth and the star. [That’s just like her, muttered Philip, she always assumed to be the older.] But don’t mind.  I’ve come to the conclusion that I am a moth myself, and some of the lights I used to think stars have fallen.  And, seriously, dear friend, I am glad there is a person who does not know the things not worth knowing.  It is a step in the right direction.  I have been this summer up in the hills, meditating.  And I am not so sure of things as I was.  I used to think that all women needed was what is called education —­science, history, literature—­and you could safely turn them loose on the world.  It certainly is not safe to turn them loose without education—­but I begin to wonder what we are all coming to.  I don’t mind telling you that I have got into a pretty psychological muddle, and I don’t see much to hold on to.