“What old dynamiter of mine?”

“That old one-handed Dutchman—­friend of your youth—­the one we saw at Maroni’s—­”

“Oh-Lindau!” said March, with a vague pang of self reproach for having thought of Lindau so little after the first flood of his tender feeling toward him was past.

“Yes, our versatile friend was modelling him as Judas Iscariot.  Lindau makes a first-rate Judas, and Beaton has got a big thing in that head if he works the religious people right.  But what I was thinking of was this—­it struck me just as I was going out of the door:  Didn’t you tell me Lindau knew forty or fifty, different languages?”

“Four or five, yes.”

“Well, we won’t quarrel about the number.  The question is, Why not work him in the field of foreign literature?  You can’t go over all their reviews and magazines, and he could do the smelling for you, if you could trust his nose.  Would he know a good thing?”

“I think he would,” said March, on whom the scope of Fulkerson’s suggestion gradually opened.  “He used to have good taste, and he must know the ground.  Why, it’s a capital idea, Fulkerson!  Lindau wrote very fair English, and he could translate, with a little revision.”

“And he would probably work cheap.  Well, hadn’t you better see him about it?  I guess it ’ll be quite a windfall for him.”

“Yes, it will.  I’ll look him up.  Thank you for the suggestion, Fulkerson.”

“Oh, don’t mention it!  I don’t mind doing ‘Every Other Week’ a good turn now and then when it comes in my way.”  Fulkerson went out again, and this time March was finally left with Mr. Dryfoos.

“Mrs. March was very sorry not to be at home when your sisters called the other day.  She wished me to ask if they had any afternoon in particular.  There was none on your mother’s card.”

“No, sir,” said the young man, with a flush of embarrassment that seemed habitual with him.  “She has no day.  She’s at home almost every day.  She hardly ever goes out.”

“Might we come some evening?” March asked.  “We should be very glad to do that, if she would excuse the informality.  Then I could come with Mrs. March.”

“Mother isn’t very formal,” said the young man.  “She would be very glad to see you.”

“Then we’ll come some night this week, if you will let us.  When do you expect your father back?”

“Not much before Christmas.  He’s trying to settle up some things at Moffitt.”

“And what do you think of our art editor?” asked March, with a smile, for the change of subject.

“Oh, I don’t know much about such things,” said the young man, with another of his embarrassed flushes.  “Mr. Fulkerson seems to feel sure that he is the one for us.”

“Mr. Fulkerson seemed to think that I was the one for you, too,” said March; and he laughed.  “That’s what makes me doubt his infallibility.  But he couldn’t do worse with Mr. Beaton.”