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."

"Oh," said March. It was quite impossible for him to affect a more
explicit interest in the fact. He and Dryfoos sat silent for a few
moments, and he was vainly casting about in his thought for something
else which would tide them over the interval till Fulkerson came, when
he heard his step on the stairs.

"Hello, hello!" he said. "Meeting of the clans!" It was always a meeting
of the clans, with Fulkerson, or a field day, or an extra session, or
a regular conclave, whenever he saw people of any common interest
together. "Hain't seen you here for a good while, Mr. Dryfoos. Did think
some of running away with 'Every Other Week' one while, but couldn't
seem to work March up to the point."

He gave Dryfoos his hand, and pushed aside the papers on the corner of
March's desk, and sat down there, and went on briskly with the nonsense
he could always talk while he was waiting for another to develop any
matter of business; he told March afterward that he scented business
in the air as soon as