All the way up to the South End March mentally prolonged his talk with Fulkerson, and at his door in Nankeen Square he closed the parley with a plump refusal to go to New York on any terms.  His daughter Bella was lying in wait for him in the hall, and she threw her arms round his neck with the exuberance of her fourteen years and with something of the histrionic intention of her sex.  He pressed on, with her clinging about him, to the library, and, in the glow of his decision against Fulkerson, kissed his wife, where she sat by the study lamp reading the Transcript through her first pair of eye-glasses:  it was agreed in the family that she looked distinguished in them, or, at any rate, cultivated.  She took them off to give him a glance of question, and their son Tom looked up from his book for a moment; he was in his last year at the high school, and was preparing for Harvard.

“I didn’t get away from the office till half-past five,” March explained to his wife’s glance, “and then I walked.  I suppose dinner’s waiting.  I’m sorry, but I won’t do it any more.”

At table he tried to be gay with Bella, who babbled at him with a voluble pertness which her brother had often advised her parents to check in her, unless they wanted her to be universally despised.

“Papa!” she shouted at last, “you’re not listening!” As soon as possible his wife told the children they might be excused.  Then she asked, “What is it, Basil?”

“What is what?” he retorted, with a specious brightness that did not avail.

“What is on your mind?”

“How do you know there’s anything?”

“Your kissing me so when you came in, for one thing.”

“Don’t I always kiss you when I come in?”

“Not now.  I suppose it isn’t necessary any more.  ‘Cela va sans baiser.’”

“Yes, I guess it’s so; we get along without the symbolism now.”  He stopped, but she knew that he had not finished.

“Is it about your business?  Have they done anything more?”

“No; I’m still in the dark.  I don’t know whether they mean to supplant me, or whether they ever did.  But I wasn’t thinking about that.  Fulkerson has been to see me again.”

“Fulkerson?” She brightened at the name, and March smiled, too.  “Why didn’t you bring him to dinner?”

“I wanted to talk with you.  Then you do like him?”

“What has that got to do with it, Basil?”

“Nothing! nothing!  That is, he was boring away about that scheme of his again.  He’s got it into definite shape at last.”

“What shape?”

March outlined it for her, and his wife seized its main features with the intuitive sense of affairs which makes women such good business-men when they will let it.

“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?” March toyed with the delay the question gave him; then he said, with a sort of deprecatory laugh:  “It seems that Fulkerson has had his eye on me ever since we met that night on the Quebec boat.  I opened up pretty freely to him, as you do to a man you never expect to see again, and when I found he was in that newspaper syndicate business I told him about my early literary ambitions ­”

“You can’t say that I ever discouraged them, Basil,” his wife put in.  “I should have been willing, any time, to give up everything for them.”

“Well, he says that I first suggested this brilliant idea to him.  Perhaps I did; I don’t remember.  When he told me about his supplying literature to newspapers for simultaneous publication, he says I asked:  ’Why not apply the principle of co-operation to a magazine, and run it in the interest of the contributors?’ and that set him to thinking, and he thought out his plan of a periodical which should pay authors and artists a low price outright for their work and give them a chance of the profits in the way of a percentage.  After all, it isn’t so very different from the chances an author takes when he publishes a book.  And Fulkerson thinks that the novelty of the thing would pique public curiosity, if it didn’t arouse public sympathy.  And the long and short of it is, Isabel, that he wants me to help edit it.”

“To edit it?” His wife caught her breath, and she took a little time to realize the fact, while she stared hard at her husband to make sure he was not joking.

“Yes.  He says he owes it all to me; that I invented the idea ­the germ ­the microbe.”

His wife had now realized the fact, at least in a degree that excluded trifling with it.  “That is very honorable of Mr. Fulkerson; and if he owes it to you, it was the least he could do.”  Having recognized her husband’s claim to the honor done him, she began to kindle with a sense of the honor itself and the value of the opportunity.  “It’s a very high compliment to you, Basil ­a very high compliment.  And you could give up this wretched insurance business that you’ve always hated so, and that’s making you so unhappy now that you think they’re going to take it from you.  Give it up and take Mr. Fulkerson’s offer!  It’s a perfect interposition, coming just at this time!  Why, do it!  Mercy!” she suddenly arrested herself, “he wouldn’t expect you to get along on the possible profits?” Her face expressed the awfulness of the notion.

March smiled reassuringly, and waited to give himself the pleasure of the sensation he meant to give her.  “If I’ll make striking phrases for it and edit it, too, he’ll give me four thousand dollars.”

He leaned back in his chair, and stuck his hands deep into his pockets, and watched his wife’s face, luminous with the emotions that flashed through her mind-doubt, joy, anxiety.

“Basil!  You don’t mean it!  Why, take it!  Take it instantly!  Oh, what a thing to happen!  Oh, what luck!  But you deserve it, if you first suggested it.  What an escape, what a triumph over all those hateful insurance people!  Oh, Basil, I’m afraid he’ll change his mind!  You ought to have accepted on the spot.  You might have known I would approve, and you could so easily have taken it back if I didn’t.  Telegraph him now!  Run right out with the despatch ­Or we can send Tom!”

In these imperatives of Mrs. March’s there was always much of the conditional.  She meant that he should do what she said, if it were entirely right; and she never meant to be considered as having urged him.

“And suppose his enterprise went wrong?” her husband suggested.

“It won’t go wrong.  Hasn’t he made a success of his syndicate?”

“He says so ­yes.”

“Very well, then, it stands to reason that he’ll succeed in this, too.  He wouldn’t undertake it if he didn’t know it would succeed; he must have capital.”

“It will take a great deal to get such a thing going; and even if he’s got an Angel behind him ­”

She caught at the word ­“An Angel?”

“It’s what the theatrical people call a financial backer.  He dropped a hint of something of that kind.”

“Of course, he’s got an Angel,” said his wife, promptly adopting the word.  “And even if he hadn’t, still, Basil, I should be willing to have you risk it.  The risk isn’t so great, is it?  We shouldn’t be ruined if it failed altogether.  With our stocks we have two thousand a year, anyway, and we could pinch through on that till you got into some other business afterward, especially if we’d saved something out of your salary while it lasted.  Basil, I want you to try it!  I know it will give you a new lease of life to have a congenial occupation.”  March laughed, but his wife persisted.  “I’m all for your trying it, Basil; indeed I am.  If it’s an experiment, you can give it up.”

“It can give me up, too.”

“Oh, nonsense!  I guess there’s not much fear of that.  Now, I want you to telegraph Mr. Fulkerson, so that he’ll find the despatch waiting for him when he gets to New York.  I’ll take the whole responsibility, Basil, and I’ll risk all the consequences.”