better than this, the book had attracted the attention of many lovers of
literature. Philip was surprised day after day by meeting people who had
read it. His name began to be known in a small circle who are interested
in the business, and it was not long before he had offers from editors,
who were always on the lookout for new writers of promise, to send
something for their magazines. And, perhaps more flattering than all, he
began to have society invitations to dine, and professional invitations
to those little breakfasts that publishers give to old writers and
to young whose names are beginning to be spoken of. All this was very
exhilarating and encouraging. And yet Philip was not allowed to be
unduly elated by the attention of his fellow-craftsmen, for he soon
found that a man's consequence in this circle, as well as with the great
public, depended largely upon the amount of the sale of his book. How
else should it be rated, when a very popular author, by whom Philip sat
one day at luncheon, confessed that he never read books?

"So," said Mr. Sharp, one morning, "I see you have gone into literature,
Mr. Burnett."

"Not very deep," replied Philip with a smile, as he rose from his desk.

"Going to drop law, eh?"

"I haven't had occasion to drop much of anything yet," said Philip,
still smiling.

"Oh well, two masters, you know," and Mr. Sharp passed on to his room.

It was not, however, Mr. Sharp's opinion that Philip was concerned
about. The polite note from Mrs. Mavick stuck in his mind. It was a
civil way of telling him that all summer debts were now paid, and that
his relations with the house of Mavick were at an end. This conclusion
was forced upon him when he left his card, a few days after the
reception, and had the ill luck not to find the ladies at home. The
situation had no element of tragedy in it, but Philip was powerless.
He could not storm the house. He had no visible grievance. There was
nothing to fight. He had simply run against one of the invisible social
barriers that neither offer resistance nor yield. No one had shown him
any discourtesy that society would recognize as a matter of offense.
Nay, more than that, it could have no sympathy with him. It was only the
case of a presumptuous and poor young man who was after a rich girl. The
position itself was ignoble, if it were disclosed.

Yet fortune, which sometimes likes to play the mischief with the best
social arrangements, did give Philip