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There was a great deal that was literary and factitious and tawdry in the mood in which he went to see Christine Dryfoos, the night when the Marches sat talking their prospects over; and nothing that was decided in his purpose.
"Well, then, I guess it's a good chance to give Mr. Dryfoos an idea of what we've really done just while we're resting, as Artemus Ward says. Heigh, March?" "I will let you blow the trumpet, Fulkerson. I think it belongs strictly to the advertising department," said March.
He grieved this out as if to himself rather than to Beaton, who, scarcely ventured to say, "I know I am very sorry " "How did you come," Dryfoos interrupted, "to take up paintin'?" "Well, I don't know," said Beaton, a little scornfully. "You don't take a thing of that kind up, I fancy. I always wanted to paint." "Father try to stop you?" "No. It wouldn't have been of any use. Why "
She was glaring with a frown at her sister, and detached her eyes from her with an effort. "What did you say?" she demanded, with an absent bluntness. "Oh yes. Yes! We went once. Father took a box at the Metropolitan." "Then you got a good dose of Wagner, I suppose?" said March. "What?" asked the girl. "I don't think Miss Dryfoos is very fond of Wagner's music," Mrs. Mandel said.
Fulkerson was as little likely as possible to fall under a superstitious subjection to another man; but March could not help seeing that in this possible measure Dryfoos was Fulkerson's fetish. He did not revere him, March decided, because it was not in Fulkerson's nature to revere anything; he could like and dislike, but he could not respect.
It expressed Frescobaldi's conception of a derrick, and a touch of nature had been added in the flame of brandy, which burned luridly up from a small pit in the centre of the base, and represented the gas in combustion as it issued from the ground. Fulkerson burst into a roar of laughter with the words that recognized Frescobaldi's personal tribute to Dryfoos.
"I'm just middlin'," Mrs. Dryfoos replied. "I ain't never so well, nowadays. I tell fawther I don't believe it agrees with me very well here, but he says I'll git used to it. He's away now, out at Moffitt," she said to March, and wavered on foot a moment before she sank into a chair.
There's the making of several characters in each of us; we are each several characters, and sometimes this character has the lead in us, and sometimes that. From what Fulkerson has told me of Dryfoos, I should say he had always had the potentiality of better things in him than he has ever been yet; and perhaps the time has come for the good to have its chance.
Mandel done right?" asked Dryfoos, as if he wished simply to be assured of a point of etiquette. "Yes, she did right. I've nothing to complain of." "That's all I wanted to know," said Dryfoos; but apparently he had not finished, and he did not go, though the silence that Beaton now kept gave him a chance to do so.
"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.
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