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Dryfoos, Mr. Beaton." Beaton shook hands with March, and then with Mr. Dryfoos, and Fulkerson went on, gayly: "We were just talking of you, Beaton well, you know the old saying. Mr. March, as I told you, is our editor, and Mr.
They both sat silent a little while, and then Beaton said, "I suppose you haven't seen Dryfoos the second time?" "No. I came in here to gird up my loins with a little dinner before I tackled him. But something seems to be the matter with Maroni's cook. I don't want anything to eat." "The cooking's about as bad as usual," said Beaton.
But even in that extreme case we should be provided for. Oh no, I'm not afraid of losing my place! I've merely a sort of psychological curiosity to know how men like Dryfoos and Fulkerson will work out the problem before them." It was a curiosity which Fulkerson himself shared, at least concerning Dryfoos.
Dryfoos, he could see, thought he was doing all his invited guests a favor; and while he stood in a certain awe of them as people of much greater social experience than himself, regarded them with a kind of contempt, as people who were going to have a better dinner at his house than they could ever afford to have at their own.
"Oh yes," said March, "I understand that." He expected the praise of the great West to lead up to some comment on 'Every Other Week'; and there was abundant suggestion of that topic in the manuscripts, proofs of letter-press and illustrations, with advance copies of the latest number strewn over his table. But Dryfoos apparently kept himself from looking at these things.
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.
After all, it was rather absurd to propose making a purely personal question the pivot on which his relations with 'Every Other Week' turned. He took a hint from March's position and decided that he did not know Dryfoos in these relations; he knew only Fulkerson, who had certainly had nothing to do with Mrs. Mandel's asking his intentions.
Is he makin' up to Christine?" "I reckon he is. From Mely's talk, she's about crazy over the fellow. Don't you like him, Jacob?" "I don't know him, or what he is. He hasn't got any manners. Who brought him here? How'd he come to come, in the first place?" "Mr. Fulkerson brung him, I believe," said the old woman, patiently. "Fulkerson!" Dryfoos snorted. "Where's Mrs. Mandel, I should like to know?
She found herself, before she knew it, making her banjo a property in the little comedy, and professing so much pleasure in the fact that Miss Dryfoos was taking it up; she had herself been so much interested by it.
But when I think of myself and my own crankiness for the literary department; and young Dryfoos, who ought really to be in the pulpit, or a monastery, or something, for publisher; and that young Beaton, who probably hasn't a moral fibre in his composition, for the art man, I don't know but we could give Fulkerson odds and still beat him in oddity."
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