“I suppose it is a kind of lottery, like most things. The publishers have to take risks. The only harm I wish them is that they were compelled to read all the stuff they try to make us read. Ah, well. Mr. Burnett, I hope you have made a hit. It is pretty much the same thing in our business. The publisher bulls his own book and bears the other fellow's. Is it a New York story?”
“Partly; things come to a focus here, you know.”
“I could give you points. It's a devil of a place. I guess the novelists are too near to see the romance of it. When I was in Rome I amused myself by diving into the mediaeval records. Steel and poison were the weapons then. We have a different method now, but it comes to the same thing, and we say we are more civilized. I think our way is more devilishly dramatic than the old brute fashion. Yes, I could give you points.”
“I should be greatly obliged,” said Philip, seeing the way to bring the conversation back to its starting point; “your wide experience of life—if you had leisure at home some time.”
“Oh,” replied Mavick, with more good-humor in his laugh than he had shown before, “you needn't beat about the bush. Have you seen Evelyn?”
“No, not since that dinner at the Van Cortlandts'.”
“Huh! for myself, I should be pleased to see you any time, Mr. Burnett. Mrs. Mavick hasn't felt like seeing anybody lately. But I'll see, I'll see.”
The two men rose and shook hands, as men shake hands when they have an understanding.
“I'm glad you are doing well,” Mr. Mavick added; “your life is before you, mine is behind me; that makes a heap of difference.”
Within a few days Philip received a note from Mrs. Mavick—not an effusive note, not an explanatory note, not an apologetic note, simply a note as if nothing unusual had happened—if Mr. Burnett had leisure, would he drop in at five o'clock in Irving Place for a cup of tea?