not. All the time he was poignantly sensible of her grace,
her elegance, her style; they seemed to intoxicate him; some tones of
her voice thrilled through his nerves, and some looks turned his
brain with a delicious, swooning sense of her beauty; her refinement
bewildered him. But all this did not admit the idea of possession, even
of aspiration. At the most his worship only set her beyond the love of
other men as far as beyond his own.

PG EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

Affectional habit
Brag of his wife, as a good husband always does
But when we make that money here, no one loses it
Courage hadn't been put to the test
Family buryin' grounds
Homage which those who have not pay to those who have
Hurry up and git well--or something
Made money and do not yet know that money has made them
Society: All its favors are really bargains
Wages are the measure of necessity and not of merit
Without realizing his cruelty, treated as a child

PART FOURTH

I.

Not long after Lent, Fulkerson set before Dryfoos one day his scheme for
a dinner in celebration of the success of 'Every Other Week.' Dryfoos
had never meddled in any manner with the conduct of the periodical; but
Fulkerson easily saw that he was proud of his relation to it, and he
proceeded upon the theory that he would be willing to have this relation
known: On the days when he had been lucky in stocks, he was apt to drop
in at the office on Eleventh Street, on his way up-town, and listen to
Fulkerson's talk. He was on good enough terms with March, who revised
his first impressions of the man, but they had not much to say to each
other, and it seemed to March that Dryfoos was even a little afraid
of him, as of a piece of mechanism he had acquired, but did not quite
understand; he left the working of it to Fulkerson, who no doubt bragged
of it sufficiently. The old man seemed to have as little to say to his
son; he shut himself up with Fulkerson, where the others could hear
the manager begin and go on with an unstinted flow of talk about 'Every
Other Week;' for Fulkerson never talked of anything else if he could
help it, and was always bringing the conversation back to it if it
strayed:

The day he spoke of the dinner he rose and called from his door: "March,
I say, come down here a minute, will you? Conrad, I want you, too."

The editor and the publisher found the manager and the proprietor seated
on opposite sides