Chapter XVI
Adjusted Relationships
“It’s the homiest spot I ever saw—it’s homier than home,” avowed Philippa
Gordon, looking about her with delighted eyes. They were all assembled at
twilight in the big living-room at Patty’s Place—Anne and Priscilla, Phil and
Stella, Aunt Jamesina, Rusty, Joseph, the Sarah-Cat, and Gog and Magog. The
firelight shadows were dancing over the walls; the cats were purring; and a huge
bowl of hothouse chrysanthemums, sent to Phil by one of the victims, shone
through the golden gloom like creamy moons.
It was three weeks since they had considered themselves settled, and already
all believed the experiment would be a success. The first fortnight after their
return had been a pleasantly exciting one; they had been busy setting up their
household goods, organizing their little establishment, and adjusting different
opinions.
Anne was not over-sorry to leave Avonlea when the time came to return to
college. The last few days of her vacation had not been pleasant. Her prize story
had been published in the Island papers; and Mr. William Blair had, upon the
counter of his store, a huge pile of pink, green and yellow pamphlets, containing
it, one of which he gave to every customer. He sent a complimentary bundle to
Anne, who promptly dropped them all in the kitchen stove. Her humiliation was
the consequence of her own ideals only, for Avonlea folks thought it quite
splendid that she should have won the prize. Her many friends regarded her with
honest admiration; her few foes with scornful envy. Josie Pye said she believed
Anne Shirley had just copied the story; she was sure she remembered reading it
in a paper years before. The Sloanes, who had found out or guessed that Charlie
had been “turned down,” said they didn’t think it was much to be proud of;
almost any one could have done it, if she tried. Aunt Atossa told Anne she was
very sorry to hear she had taken to writing novels; nobody born and bred in
Avonlea would do it; that was what came of adopting orphans from goodness
knew where, with goodness knew what kind of parents. Even Mrs. Rachel Lynde
was darkly dubious about the propriety of writing fiction, though she was almost
reconciled to it by that twenty-five dollar check.