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"To kill time," Alma explained. "Well," said Fulkerson, gallantly, "this is the last place I should like to do it. But I guess I'd better be going, too. It has sometimes occurred to me that there is such a thing as staying too late. But with Brother Beaton, here, just starting in for an evening's amusement, it does seem a little early yet. Can't you urge me to stay, somebody?"
"I don't know their namess," Lindau began, when Fulkerson said: "Hope you haven't forgotten mine, Mr. Lindau? I met you with Mr. March at Maroni's one night." Fulkerson offered him a universally shakable hand. "Oh yes! I am gladt to zee you again, Mr. Vulkerson. And Mr. Marge he don't zeem to gome any more?" "Up to his eyes in work.
This had happened so often that it had come to be a sort of joke between them. But now Fulkerson clearly meant business, and March had a struggle to maintain himself in a firm poise of refusal. "I dare say it wouldn't or it needn't-cost so very much more, but I don't want to go to New York; or my wife doesn't. It's the same thing." "A good deal samer," Fulkerson admitted.
"It sounds perfectly crazy," she said, finally. "But it mayn't be. The only thing I didn't like about Mr. Fulkerson was his always wanting to chance things. But what have you got to do with it?" "What have I got to do with it?"
There was a quiet-looking man, rather stout, and a little above the middle height, with a full, close-cropped iron-gray beard, seated beyond the table where Fulkerson tilted himself back, with his knees set against it; and leaning against the mantel there was a young man with a singularly gentle face, in which the look of goodness qualified and transfigured a certain simplicity.
Didn't I tell you those criticisms would be the making of us, when they first began to turn you blue this morning, March?" "He came home to lunch perfectly sick," said Mrs. Marcli; "and I wouldn't let him go back again." "Didn't I tell you so?" Fulkerson persisted.
In that group of impassioned individualities, March felt him a refuge and comfort with his harmless dilettante intention of some day writing a novel, and his belief that he was meantime collecting material for it. Fulkerson, while breaking the ice for the whole company, was mainly engaged in keeping Colonel Woodburn thawed out.
"Colonel Woodburn," Fulkerson called out, "if you'll work up those ideas into a short paper say, three thousand words I'll engage to make March take it." The colonel went on without replying: "But Mr. Lindau is right in characterizing some of the motives that led men to the cannon's mouth as no higher than business motives, and his comparison is the most forcible that he could have used.
So far as March knew, Dryfoos had been left to suppose that Lindau had simply stopped for some reason that did not personally affect him. They never spoke of him, and March was too proud to ask either Fulkerson or Conrad whether the old man knew that Lindau had returned his money.
March rose from her pillow, and clutched the home letters to her from the abeyance in which they had fallen on the coverlet while she was dealing with the others. "What do you mean?" "It seems to have been prompted by a hint you let drop, which Tom has passed to Bella and Fulkerson."
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