"Not much before Christmas. He's trying to settle up some things at
Moffitt."

"And what do you think of our art editor?" asked March, with a smile,
for the change of subject.

"Oh, I don't know much about such things," said the young man, with
another of his embarrassed flushes. "Mr. Fulkerson seems to feel sure
that he is the one for us."

"Mr. Fulkerson seemed to think that I was the one for you, too," said
March; and he laughed. "That's what makes me doubt his infallibility.
But he couldn't do worse with Mr. Beaton."

Mr. Dryfoos reddened and looked down, as if unable or unwilling to cope
with the difficulty of making a polite protest against March's self-
depreciation. He said, after a moment: "It's new business to all of us
except Mr. Fulkerson. But I think it will succeed. I think we can do
some good in it."

March asked rather absently, "Some good?" Then he added: "Oh yes;
I think we can. What do you mean by good? Improve the public taste?
Elevate the standard of literature? Give young authors and artists a
chance?"

This was the only good that had ever been in March's mind, except the
good that was to come in a material way from his success, to himself and
to his family.

"I don't know," said the young man; and he looked down in a shamefaced