March’s face had sobered more and more as she followed one hopeful burst with another, and now it expressed a positive pain.  But he forced a smile and said:  “There’s a little condition attached.  Where did you suppose it was to be published?”

“Why, in Boston, of course.  Where else should it be published?”

She looked at him for the intention of his question so searchingly that he quite gave up the attempt to be gay about it.  “No,” he said, gravely, “it’s to be published in New York.”

She fell back in her chair.  “In New York?” She leaned forward over the table toward him, as if to make sure that she heard aright, and said, with all the keen reproach that he could have expected:  “In New York, Basil!  Oh, how could you have let me go on?”

He had a sufficiently rueful face in owning:  “I oughtn’t to have done it, but I got started wrong.  I couldn’t help putting the best foot, forward at first ­or as long as the whole thing was in the air.  I didn’t know that you would take so much to the general enterprise, or else I should have mentioned the New York condition at once; but, of course, that puts an end to it.”

“Oh, of course,” she assented, sadly.  “We couldn’t go to New York.”

“No, I know that,” he said; and with this a perverse desire to tempt her to the impossibility awoke in him, though he was really quite cold about the affair himself now.  “Fulkerson thought we could get a nice flat in New York for about what the interest and taxes came to here, and provisions are cheaper.  But I should rather not experiment at my time of life.  If I could have been caught younger, I might have been inured to New York, but I don’t believe I could stand it now.”

“How I hate to have you talk that way, Basil!  You are young enough to try anything ­anywhere; but you know I don’t like New York.  I don’t approve of it.  It’s so big, and so hideous!  Of course I shouldn’t mind that; but I’ve always lived in Boston, and the children were born and have all their friendships and associations here.”  She added, with the helplessness that discredited her good sense and did her injustice, “I have just got them both into the Friday afternoon class at Papanti’s, and you know how difficult that is.”

March could not fail to take advantage of an occasion like this.  “Well, that alone ought to settle it.  Under the circumstances, it would be flying in the face of Providence to leave Boston.  The mere fact of a brilliant opening like that offered me on ‘The Microbe,’ and the halcyon future which Fulkerson promises if we’ll come to New York, is as dust in the balance against the advantages of the Friday afternoon class.”

“Basil,” she appealed, solemnly, “have I ever interfered with your career?”

“I never had any for you to interfere with, my dear.”

“Basil!  Haven’t I always had faith in you?  And don’t you suppose that if I thought it would really be for your advancement I would go to New York or anywhere with you?”

“No, my dear, I don’t,” he teased.  “If it would be for my salvation, yes, perhaps; but not short of that; and I should have to prove by a cloud of witnesses that it would.  I don’t blame you.  I wasn’t born in Boston, but I understand how you feel.  And really, my dear,” he added, without irony, “I never seriously thought of asking you to go to New York.  I was dazzled by Fulkerson’s offer, I’ll own that; but his choice of me as editor sapped my confidence in him.”

“I don’t like to hear you say that, Basil,” she entreated.

“Well, of course there were mitigating circumstances.  I could see that Fulkerson meant to keep the whip-hand himself, and that was reassuring.  And, besides, if the Reciprocity Life should happen not to want my services any longer, it wouldn’t be quite like giving up a certainty; though, as a matter of business, I let Fulkerson get that impression; I felt rather sneaking to do it.  But if the worst comes to the worst, I can look about for something to do in Boston; and, anyhow, people don’t starve on two thousand a year, though it’s convenient to have five.  The fact is, I’m too old to change so radically.  If you don’t like my saying that, then you are, Isabel, and so are the children.  I’ve no right to take them from the home we’ve made, and to change the whole course of their lives, unless I can assure them of something, and I can’t assure them of anything.  Boston is big enough for us, and it’s certainly prettier than New York.  I always feel a little proud of hailing from Boston; my pleasure in the place mounts the farther I get away from it.  But I do appreciate it, my dear; I’ve no more desire to leave it than you have.  You may be sure that if you don’t want to take the children out of the Friday afternoon class, I don’t want to leave my library here, and all the ways I’ve got set in.  We’ll keep on.  Very likely the company won’t supplant me, and if it does, and Watkins gets the place, he’ll give me a subordinate position of some sort.  Cheer up, Isabel!  I have put Satan and his angel, Fulkerson, behind me, and it’s all right.  Let’s go in to the children.”

He came round the table to Isabel, where she sat in a growing distraction, and lifted her by the waist from her chair.

She sighed deeply.  “Shall we tell the children about it?”

“No.  What’s the use, now?”

“There wouldn’t be any,” she assented.  When they entered the family room, where the boy and girl sat on either side of the lamp working out the lessons for Monday which they had left over from the day before, she asked, “Children, how would you like to live in New York?”

Bella made haste to get in her word first.  “And give up the Friday afternoon class?” she wailed.

Tom growled from his book, without lifting his eyes:  “I shouldn’t want to go to Columbia.  They haven’t got any dormitories, and you have to board round anywhere.  Are you going to New York?” He now deigned to look up at his father.

“No, Tom.  You and Bella have decided me against it.  Your perspective shows the affair in its true proportions.  I had an offer to go to New York, but I’ve refused it.”