The girl, however, had one comfort, and that was the knowledge of Philip through Miss McDonald, whom she saw frequently, and to whom even Mrs. Mavick was in a manner reconciled.  She was often in the little house in Irving Place.  There was nothing in her manner to remind Mrs. Mavick that she had done her a great wrong, and her cheerfulness and good sense made her presence and talk a relief from the monotony of the defeated woman’s life.

It came about, therefore, that one day Philip made his way down into the city to seek an interview with Mr. Mavick.  He found him, after some inquiry, in a barren little office, occupying one of the rented desks with three or four habitues of the Street, one of them an old man like himself, the others mere lads who did not intend to remain long in such cramped quarters.

Mr. Mavick arose when his visitor stood at his desk, buttoned up his frock-coat, and extended his hand with a show of business cordiality, and motioned him to a chair.  Philip was greatly shocked at the change in Mr. Mavick’s appearance.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, “for disturbing you in business hours.”

“No disturbance,” he answered, with something of the old cynical smile on his lips.

“Long ago I called to see you on the errand I have now, but you were not in town.  It was, Mr. Mavick,” and Philip hesitated and looked down, “in regard to your daughter.”

“Ah, I did not hear of it.”

“No?  Well, Mr. Mavick, I was pretty presumptuous, for I had no foothold in the city, except a law clerkship.”

“I remember—­Hunt, Sharp & Tweedle; why didn’t you keep it?”

“I wasn’t fitted for the law.”

“Oh, literature?  Does literature pay?”

“Not in itself, not for many,” and Philip forced a laugh.  “But it led to a situation in a first-rate publishing house—­an apprenticeship that has now given me a position that seems to be permanent, with prospects beyond, and a very fair salary.  It would not seem much to you, Mr. Mavick,” and Philip tried to laugh again.

“I don’t know,” replied Mr. Mavick.  “If a fellow has any sort of salary these times, I should advise him to hold on to it.  By-the-way, Mr. Burnett, Hunt’s a Republican, isn’t he?”

“He was,” replied Philip, “the last I knew.”

“Do you happen to know whether he knows Bilbrick, the present Collector?”

“Mr. Bilbrick used to be a client of his.”

“Just so.  I think I’ll see Hunt.  A salary isn’t a bad thing for a—­for a man who has retired pretty much from business.  But you were saying, Mr. Burnett?”

“I was going to say, Mr. Mavick, that there was a little something more than my salary that I can count on pretty regularly now from the magazines, and I have had another story, a novel, accepted, and—­you won’t think me vain—­the publisher says it will go; if it doesn’t have a big sale he will—­”

“Make it up to you?”