t
a great deal more than I could, Basil. And it was just the same way with
those horrible insurance people."

"I know," March went on, trying to be proof against her flatteries,
or at least to look as if he did not deserve praise; "I know that what
Lindau said was offensive to him, and I can understand how he felt that
he had a right to punish it. All I say is that he had no right to punish
it through me."

"Yes," said Mrs. March, askingly.

"If it had been a question of making 'Every Other Week' the vehicle
of Lindau's peculiar opinions--though they're not so very peculiar; he
might have got the most of them out of Ruskin--I shouldn't have had any
ground to stand on, or at least then I should have had to ask myself
whether his opinions would be injurious to the magazine or not."

"I don't see," Mrs. March interpolated, "how they could hurt it much
worse than Colonel Woodburn's article crying up slavery."

"Well," said March, impartially, "we could print a dozen articles
praising the slavery it's impossible to have back, and it wouldn't hurt
us. But if we printed one paper against the slavery which Lindau claims
still exists, some people would call us bad names, and the counting-room
would begin to feel it. But that isn't the point. Lindau's connection
with 'Every Other Week' is almost purely mechanical; he's merely a
translator of such stories and sketches as he first submits to me,
and it isn't at all a question of his opinions hurting us, but of
my becoming an agent to punish him for his opinions. That is what I
wouldn't do; that's what I never will do."

"If you did," said his wife, "I should perfectly despise you. I didn't
understand how it was before. I thought you were just holding out
against Dryfoos because he took a dictatorial tone with you, and because
you wouldn't recognize his authority. But now I'm with you, Basil, every
time, as that horrid little Fulkerson says. But who would ever have
supposed he would be so base as to side against you?"

"I don't know," said March, thoughtfully, "that we had a right to expect
anything else. Fulkerson's standards are low; they're merely business
standards, and the good that's in him is incidental and something
quite apart from his morals and methods. He's naturally a generous and
right-minded creature, but life has taught him to truckle and trick,
like the rest of us."

"It hasn't taught you that, Basil."

"Don't be so sure. Perhaps it's only that I'm a poor