“I see,” said Philip, rather lightly, “that you improved your time in finding out what a rare creature Alice is. But,” and this more gravely, “it would surprise her that you have found it out.” “I believe you. I fancy she has not the least idea what her qualities are, or her capacities of doing or of suffering, and the world will never know--that is the point-unless some genius comes along and reveals them.” “How?” “Why, through a tragedy, a drama, a story, in which she acts out her whole self. Some act it out in society. She never will. Such sweetness and strength and passion--yes, I have no doubt, passion under all the reserve! I feel it but I cannot describe it; I haven't imagination to make you see what I feel.” “You come very near it,” said Philip, with a smile. And after a moment the girl broke out again: “Materials! You writers go searching all round for materials, just as painters do, fit for your genius.” “But don't you know that the hardest thing to do is the obvious, the thing close to you?” “I dare say. But you won't mind? It is just an illustration. I went the other day with mother to Alice's house. She was so sort of distant and reserved that I couldn't know her in the least as I know her now. And there was the rigid Puritan, her father, representing the Old Testament; and her placid mother, with all the spirit of the New Testament; and then that dear old maiden aunt, representing I don't know what, maybe a blind attempt through nature and art to escape out of Puritanism; and the typical old frame farmhouse--why, here is material for the sweetest, most pathetic idyl. Yes, the Story of Alice. In another generation people would come long distances to see the valley where Alice lived, and her spirit would pervade it.” There could be but one end to such a burst of enthusiasm, and both laughed and felt a relief in a merriment that was, after all, sympathetic. But Evelyn was a persistent creature, and presently she turned to Philip, again with those appealing eyes. “Now, why don't you do it?” Philip hesitated a moment and betrayed some embarrassment under the questioning of the truthful eyes. “I've a good mind to tell you. I have--I am writing something.” “Yes?” “Not that exactly. I couldn't, don't you see, betray and use my own relatives in that way.” “Yes, I see that.” “It isn't much. I cannot tell how it will come out. I tell you--I don't mean that I have any right to ask you to keep it as a secret of mine, but it is this way: If a writer gives away his imagination, his idea, before it is fixed in form on paper, he seems to let the air of all the world upon it and it disappears, and isn't quite his as it was before to grow in his own mind.” “I can understand that,” Evelyn replied.