“Yes. I do begin to see circumstances. I suppose I'm a sort of a goose—in the abstract, as you say.” And Evelyn laughed. It was the spontaneous, contagious laugh of a child. “You know that Miss McDonald says I'm nothing but a little idealist.”
“Did you deny it?”
“Oh, no. I said, so were the Apostles, all save one—he was a realist.”
It was Philip's turn to laugh at this new definition, and upon this the talk had drifted into the commonplaces of the summer situation and about Rivervale and its people. Philip regretted that his vacation would so soon be over, and that he must say good-by to all this repose and beauty, and to the intercourse that had been so delightful to him.
“But you will write,” Evelyn exclaimed.
Philip was startled.
“Write?”
“Yes, your novel.”
“Oh, I suppose so,” without any enthusiasm.
“You must. I keep thinking of it. What a pleasure it must be to create a real drama of life.”