The word, which Dryfoos had now used three times, made March at last think of Fulkerson; he had been filled too full of himself to think of any one else till he had mastered the notion of such wonderful good fortune as seemed about falling to him.  But now he did think of Fulkerson, and with some shame and confusion; for he remembered how, when Dryfoos had last approached him there on the business of his connection with ‘Every Other Week,’ he had been very haughty with him, and told him that he did not know him in this connection.  He blushed to find how far his thoughts had now run without encountering this obstacle of etiquette.

“Have you spoken to Mr. Fulkerson?” he asked.

“No, I hain’t.  It ain’t a question of management.  It’s a question of buying and selling.  I offer the thing to you first.  I reckon Fulkerson couldn’t get on very well without you.”

March saw the real difference in the two cases, and he was glad to see it, because he could act more decisively if not hampered by an obligation to consistency.  “I am gratified, of course, Mr. Dryfoos; extremely gratified; and it’s no use pretending that I shouldn’t be happy beyond bounds to get possession of ‘Every Other Week.’  But I don’t feel quite free to talk about it apart from Mr. Fulkerson.”

“Oh, all right!” said the old man, with quick offence.

March hastened to say:  “I feel bound to Mr. Fulkerson in every way.  He got me to come here, and I couldn’t even seem to act without him.”

He put it questioningly, and the old man answered: 

“Yes, I can see that.  When ’ll he be in?  I can wait.”  But he looked impatient.

“Very soon, now,” said March, looking at his watch.  “He was only to be gone a moment,” and while he went on to talk with Dryfoos, he wondered why the old man should have come first to speak with him, and whether it was from some obscure wish to make him reparation for displeasures in the past, or from a distrust or dislike of Fulkerson.  Whichever light he looked at it in, it was flattering.

“Do you think of going abroad soon?” he asked.

“What?  Yes—­I don’t know—­I reckon.  We got our passage engaged.  It’s on one of them French boats.  We’re goin’ to Paris.”

“Oh!  That will be interesting to the young ladies.”

“Yes.  I reckon we’re goin’ for them.  ’Tain’t likely my wife and me would want to pull up stakes at our age,” said the old man, sorrowfully.

“But you may find it do you good, Mr. Dryfoos,” said March, with a kindness that was real, mixed as it was with the selfish interest he now had in the intended voyage.

“Well, maybe, maybe,” sighed the old man; and he dropped his head forward.  “It don’t make a great deal of difference what we do or we don’t do, for the few years left.”

“I hope Mrs. Dryfoos is as well as usual,” said March, finding the ground delicate and difficult.

“Middlin’, middlin’,” said the old man.  “My daughter Christine, she ain’t very well.”