“Perhaps,” said Philip, “it is because the social pasturage gets poor.”

“Maybe,” replied the governess, continuing the conceit, “only the horde keeps pretty well together, wherever it is.  I know we are to have a very gay season.  Lots of distinguished foreigners and all that.”

“But,” said Philip, “don’t England and the Continent long for the presence of Americans in the season in the same way?”

“Not exactly.  It is the shop-keepers and hotels that sigh for the Americans.  I don’t think that American shop-keepers expect much of foreigners.”

“And you are going soon?  I suppose Miss Mavick is eager to go also,” said Philip, trying to speak indifferently.

Miss McDonald turned towards him with a look of perfect understanding, and then replied, “No, not eager; she hasn’t been in her usual spirits lately—­no, not ill—­and probably the change will be good for her.  It is her first season, you know, and that is always exciting to a girl.  Perhaps it is only the spring weather.”

It was some moments before either of them spoke again, and then Miss McDonald looked up—­“Oh, Mr. Burnett, I have wanted to see you and have a talk with you about your novel.  I could say so little in my note.  We read it first together and then I read it alone, rather to sit in judgment on it, you know.  I liked it better the second time, but I could see the faults of construction, and I could see, too, why it will be more popular with a few people than with the general public.  You don’t mind my saying—­”

“Go on, the words of a friend.”

“Yes, I know, are sometimes hardest to bear.  Well, it is lovely, ideal, but it seems to me you are still a little too afraid of human nature.  You are afraid to say things that are common.  And the deep things of life are pretty much all common.  No, don’t interrupt me.  I love the story just as it is.  I am glad you wrote it as you did.  It was natural, in your state of experience, that you should do it.  But in your next, having got rid of what was on top of your mind, so to speak, you will take a firmer, more confident hold of life.  You are not offended?”

“No, indeed,” cried Philip.  “I am very grateful.  No doubt you are right.  It seems to me, now that I am detached from it, as if it were only a sort of prelude to something else.”

“Well, you must not let my single opinion influence you too much, for I must in honesty tell you another thing.  Evelyn will not have a word of criticism of it.  She says it is like a piece of music, and the impudent thing declares that she does not expect a Scotchwoman to understand anything but ballad music.”

Philip laughed at this, such a laugh as he had not indulged in for many days.  “I hope you don’t quarrel about such a little thing.”

“Not seriously.  She says I may pick away at the story—­and I like to see her bristle up—­but that she looks at the spirit.”