"Who says it?" asked Phil practically, but not without interest.
"Oh, my aunt says it; she says other people say it."
"Well, my aunts haven't said it," remarked Phil. "According to them my only genius is for doing the wrong thing."
"We needn't any of us expect to be appreciated in our own families. That's always the way. You read a lot, don't you?"
"I like to read; but you can read a lot without being a genius. Geniuses don't have to read—they know it all without reading. So there's that."
"I'll wager you write, too;—confess now that you do!"
"Letters to my father when he's away from home—one every night. But he isn't away very much."
"But stories and things like that. Yes; don't deny it: you mean to be a writer! I'm sure you can succeed at that. Lots of women do; some of the best writers are women. You will write novels like—like—George Eliot."
Phil laughed her derision of the idea.
"She knew a lot; more than I could ever know if I studied all my life. But there's only one George Eliot; I'm hardly likely—just Phil Kirkwood in Montgomery, Indiana,—to be number two."