“You don’t understand me,” said Beaton.  “I’m not trying to get a rise out of you.  I’m in earnest.  What you want is some man who can have patience with mediocrity putting on the style of genius, and with genius turning mediocrity on his hands.  I haven’t any luck with men; I don’t get on with them; I’m not popular.”  Beaton recognized the fact with the satisfaction which it somehow always brings to human pride.

“So much the better!” Fulkerson was ready for him at this point.  “I don’t want you to work the old-established racket the reputations.  When I want them I’ll go to them with a pocketful of rocks—­knock-down argument.  But my idea is to deal with the volunteer material.  Look at the way the periodicals are carried on now!  Names! names! names!  In a country that’s just boiling over with literary and artistic ability of every kind the new fellows have no chance.  The editors all engage their material.  I don’t believe there are fifty volunteer contributions printed in a year in all the New York magazines.  It’s all wrong; it’s suicidal.  ’Every Other Week’ is going back to the good old anonymous system, the only fair system.  It’s worked well in literature, and it will work well in art.”

“It won’t work well in art,” said Beaton.  “There you have a totally different set of conditions.  What you’ll get by inviting volunteer illustrations will be a lot of amateur trash.  And how are you going to submit your literature for illustration?  It can’t be done.  At any rate, I won’t undertake to do it.”

“We’ll get up a School of Illustration,” said Fulkerson, with cynical security.  “You can read the things and explain ’em, and your pupils can make their sketches under your eye.  They wouldn’t be much further out than most illustrations are if they never knew what they were illustrating.  You might select from what comes in and make up a sort of pictorial variations to the literature without any particular reference to it.  Well, I understand you to accept?”

“No, you don’t.”

“That is, to consent to help us with your advice and criticism.  That’s all I want.  It won’t commit you to anything; and you can be as anonymous as anybody.”  At the door Fulkerson added:  “By-the-way, the new man—­the fellow that’s taken my old syndicate business—­will want you to keep on; but I guess he’s going to try to beat you down on the price of the letters.  He’s going in for retrenchment.  I brought along a check for this one; I’m to pay for that.”  He offered Beaton an envelope.

“I can’t take it, Fulkerson.  The letter’s paid for already.”  Fulkerson stepped forward and laid the envelope on the table among the tubes of paint.

“It isn’t the letter merely.  I thought you wouldn’t object to a little advance on your ‘Every Other Week’ work till you kind of got started.”

Beaton remained inflexible.  “It can’t be done, Fulkerson.  Don’t I tell you I can’t sell myself out to a thing I don’t believe in?  Can’t you understand that?”