This commonsense, matter-of-fact view of the case cheered Anne a little.  At least it removed her dread of being laughed at, though the deeper hurt of an outraged ideal remained.

Chapter XVI

Adjusted Relationships

“It’s the homiest spot I ever saw—­it’s homier than home,” avowed Philippa Gordon, looking about her with delighted eyes.  They were all assembled at twilight in the big living-room at Patty’s Place—­Anne and Priscilla, Phil and Stella, Aunt Jamesina, Rusty, Joseph, the Sarah-Cat, and Gog and Magog.  The firelight shadows were dancing over the walls; the cats were purring; and a huge bowl of hothouse chrysanthemums, sent to Phil by one of the victims, shone through the golden gloom like creamy moons.

It was three weeks since they had considered themselves settled, and already all believed the experiment would be a success.  The first fortnight after their return had been a pleasantly exciting one; they had been busy setting up their household goods, organizing their little establishment, and adjusting different opinions.

Anne was not over-sorry to leave Avonlea when the time came to return to college.  The last few days of her vacation had not been pleasant.  Her prize story had been published in the Island papers; and Mr. William Blair had, upon the counter of his store, a huge pile of pink, green and yellow pamphlets, containing it, one of which he gave to every customer.  He sent a complimentary bundle to Anne, who promptly dropped them all in the kitchen stove.  Her humiliation was the consequence of her own ideals only, for Avonlea folks thought it quite splendid that she should have won the prize.  Her many friends regarded her with honest admiration; her few foes with scornful envy.  Josie Pye said she believed Anne Shirley had just copied the story; she was sure she remembered reading it in a paper years before.  The Sloanes, who had found out or guessed that Charlie had been “turned down,” said they didn’t think it was much to be proud of; almost any one could have done it, if she tried.  Aunt Atossa told Anne she was very sorry to hear she had taken to writing novels; nobody born and bred in Avonlea would do it; that was what came of adopting orphans from goodness knew where, with goodness knew what kind of parents.  Even Mrs. Rachel Lynde was darkly dubious about the propriety of writing fiction, though she was almost reconciled to it by that twenty-five dollar check.

“It is perfectly amazing, the price they pay for such lies, that’s what,” she said, half-proudly, half-severely.