That evening March went with his wife to return the call of the Dryfoos ladies.  On their way up-town in the Elevated he told her of his talk with young Dryfoos.  “I confess I was a little ashamed before him afterward for having looked at the matter so entirely from the aesthetic point of view.  But of course, you know, if I went to work at those things with an ethical intention explicitly in mind, I should spoil them.”

“Of course,” said his wife.  She had always heard him say something of this kind about such things.

He went on:  “But I suppose that’s just the point that such a nature as young Dryfoos’s can’t get hold of, or keep hold of.  We’re a queer lot, down there, Isabel ­perfect menagerie.  If it hadn’t been that Fulkerson got us together, and really seems to know what he did it for, I should say he was the oddest stick among us.  But when I think of myself and my own crankiness for the literary department; and young Dryfoos, who ought really to be in the pulpit, or a monastery, or something, for publisher; and that young Beaton, who probably hasn’t a moral fibre in his composition, for the art man, I don’t know but we could give Fulkerson odds and still beat him in oddity.”

His wife heaved a deep sigh of apprehension, of renunciation, of monition.  “Well, I’m glad you can feel so light about it, Basil.”

“Light?  I feel gay!  With Fulkerson at the helm, I tell you the rocks and the lee shore had better keep out of the way.”  He laughed with pleasure in his metaphor.  “Just when you think Fulkerson has taken leave of his senses he says or does something that shows he is on the most intimate and inalienable terms with them all the time.  You know how I’ve been worrying over those foreign periodicals, and trying to get some translations from them for the first number?  Well, Fulkerson has brought his centipedal mind to bear on the subject, and he’s suggested that old German friend of mine I was telling you of ­the one I met in the restaurant ­the friend of my youth.”

“Do you think he could do it?” asked Mrs. March, sceptically.

“He’s a perfect Babel of strange tongues; and he’s the very man for the work, and I was ashamed I hadn’t thought of him myself, for I suspect he needs the work.”

“Well, be careful how you get mixed up with him, then, Basil,” said his wife, who had the natural misgiving concerning the friends of her husband’s youth that all wives have.  “You know the Germans are so unscrupulously dependent.  You don’t know anything about him now.”

“I’m not afraid of Lindau,” said March.  “He was the best and kindest man I ever saw, the most high-minded, the most generous.  He lost a hand in the war that helped to save us and keep us possible, and that stump of his is character enough for me.”

“Oh, you don’t think I could have meant anything against him!” said Mrs. March, with the tender fervor that every woman who lived in the time of the war must feel for those who suffered in it.  “All that I meant was that I hoped you would not get mixed up with him too much.  You’re so apt to be carried away by your impulses.”

“They didn’t carry me very far away in the direction of poor old Lindau, I’m ashamed to think,” said March.  “I meant all sorts of fine things by him after I met him; and then I forgot him, and I had to be reminded of him by Fulkerson.”

She did not answer him, and he fell into a remorseful reverie, in which he rehabilitated Lindau anew, and provided handsomely for his old age.  He got him buried with military honors, and had a shaft raised over him, with a medallion likeness by Beaton and an epitaph by himself, by the time they reached Forty-second Street; there was no time to write Lindau’s life, however briefly, before the train stopped.

They had to walk up four blocks and then half a block across before they came to the indistinctive brownstone house where the Dryfooses lived.  It was larger than some in the same block, but the next neighborhood of a huge apartment-house dwarfed it again.  March thought he recognized the very flat in which he had disciplined the surly janitor, but he did not tell his wife; he made her notice the transition character of the street, which had been mostly built up in apartment-houses, with here and there a single dwelling dropped far down beneath and beside them, to that jag-toothed effect on the sky-line so often observable in such New York streets.  “I don’t know exactly what the old gentleman bought here for,” he said, as they waited on the steps after ringing, “unless he expects to turn it into flats by-and-by.  Otherwise, I don’t believe he’ll get his money back.”

An Irish serving-man, with a certain surprise that delayed him, said the ladies were at home, and let the Marches in, and then carried their cards up-stairs.  The drawing-room, where he said they could sit down while he went on this errand, was delicately, decorated in white and gold, and furnished with a sort of extravagant good taste; there was nothing to object to in the satin furniture, the pale, soft, rich carpet, the pictures, and the bronze and china bric-a-brac, except that their costliness was too evident; everything in the room meant money too plainly, and too much of it.  The Marches recognized this in the hoarse whispers which people cannot get their voices above when they try to talk away the interval of waiting in such circumstances; they conjectured from what they had heard of the Dryfooses that this tasteful luxury in no wise expressed their civilization.  “Though when you come to that,” said March, “I don’t know that Mrs. Green’s gimcrackery expresses ours.”

“Well, Basil, I didn’t take the gimcrackery.  That was your ­”

The rustle of skirts on the stairs without arrested Mrs. March in the well-merited punishment which she never failed to inflict upon her husband when the question of the gimcrackery ­they always called it that ­came up.  She rose at the entrance of a bright-looking, pretty-looking, mature, youngish lady, in black silk of a neutral implication, who put out her hand to her, and said, with a very cheery, very ladylike accent, “Mrs. March?” and then added to both of them, while she shook hands with March, and before they could get the name out of their months:  “No, not Miss Dryfoos!  Neither of them; nor Mrs. Dryfoos.  Mrs. Mandel.  The ladies will be down in a moment.  Won’t you throw off your sacque, Mrs. March?  I’m afraid it’s rather warm here, coming from the outside.”

“I will throw it back, if you’ll allow me,” said Mrs. March, with a sort of provisionality, as if, pending some uncertainty as to Mrs. Mandel’s quality and authority, she did not feel herself justified in going further.

But if she did not know about Mrs. Mandel, Mrs. Mandel seemed to know about her.  “Oh, well, do!” she said, with a sort of recognition of the propriety of her caution.  “I hope you are feeling a little at home in New York.  We heard so much of your trouble in getting a flat, from Mr. Fulkerson.”

“Well, a true Bostonian doesn’t give up quite so soon,” said Mrs. March.

“But I will say New York doesn’t seem so far away, now we’re here.”

“I’m sure you’ll like it.  Every one does.”  Mrs. Mandel added to March, “It’s very sharp out, isn’t it?”

“Rather sharp.  But after our Boston winters I don’t know but I ought to repudiate the word.”

“Ah, wait till you have been here through March!” said Mrs. Mandel.  She began with him, but skillfully transferred the close of her remark, and the little smile of menace that went with it, to his wife.

“Yes,” said Mrs. March, “or April, either:  Talk about our east winds!”

“Oh, I’m sure they can’t be worse than our winds,” Mrs. Mandel returned, caressingly.

“If we escape New York pneumonia,” March laughed, “it will only be to fall a prey to New York malaria as soon as the frost is out of the ground.”

“Oh, but you know,” said Mrs. Mandel, “I think our malaria has really been slandered a little.  It’s more a matter of drainage ­of plumbing.  I don’t believe it would be possible for malaria to get into this house, we’ve had it gone over so thoroughly.”

Mrs. March said, while she tried to divine Mrs. Mandel’s position from this statement, “It’s certainly the first duty.”

“If Mrs. March could have had her way, we should have had the drainage of our whole ward put in order,” said her husband, “before we ventured to take a furnished apartment for the winter.”

Mrs. Mandel looked discreetly at Mrs. March for permission to laugh at this, but at the same moment both ladies became preoccupied with a second rustling on the stairs.

Two tall, well-dressed young girls came in, and Mrs. Mandel introduced, “Miss Dryfoos, Mrs. March; and Miss Mela Dryfoos, Mr. March,” she added, and the girls shook hands in their several ways with the Marches.

Miss Dryfoos had keen black eyes, and her hair was intensely black.  Her face, but for the slight inward curve of the nose, was regular, and the smallness of her nose and of her mouth did not weaken her face, but gave it a curious effect of fierceness, of challenge.  She had a large black fan in her hand, which she waved in talking, with a slow, watchful nervousness.  Her sister was blonde, and had a profile like her brother’s; but her chin was not so salient, and the weak look of the mouth was not corrected by the spirituality or the fervor of his eyes, though hers were of the same mottled blue.  She dropped into the low seat beside Mrs. Mandel, and intertwined her fingers with those of the hand which Mrs. Mandel let her have.  She smiled upon the Marches, while Miss Dryfoos watched them intensely, with her eyes first on one and then on the other, as if she did not mean to let any expression of theirs escape her.

“My mother will be down in a minute,” she said to Mrs. March.

“I hope we’re not disturbing her.  It is so good of you to let us come in the evening,” Mrs. March replied.

“Oh, not at all,” said the girl.  “We receive in the evening.”

“When we do receive,” Miss Mela put in.  “We don’t always get the chance to.”  She began a laugh, which she checked at a smile from Mrs. Mandel, which no one could have seen to be reproving.

Miss Dryfoos looked down at her fan, and looked up defiantly at Mrs. March.  “I suppose you have hardly got settled.  We were afraid we would disturb you when we called.”

“Oh no!  We were very sorry to miss your visit.  We are quite settled in our new quarters.  Of course, it’s all very different from Boston.”

“I hope it’s more of a sociable place there,” Miss Mela broke in again.  “I never saw such an unsociable place as New York.  We’ve been in this house three months, and I don’t believe that if we stayed three years any of the neighbors would call.”

“I fancy proximity doesn’t count for much in New York,” March suggested.

Mrs. Mandel said:  “That’s what I tell Miss Mela.  But she is a very social nature, and can’t reconcile herself to the fact.”

“No, I can’t,” the girl pouted.  “I think it was twice as much fun in Moffitt.  I wish I was there now.”

“Yes,” said March, “I think there’s a great deal more enjoyment in those smaller places.  There’s not so much going on in the way of public amusements, and so people make more of one another.  There are not so many concerts, theatres, operas ­”

“Oh, they’ve got a splendid opera-house in Moffitt.  It’s just grand,” said Miss Mela.

“Have you been to the opera here, this winter?” Mrs. March asked of the elder girl.

She was glaring with a frown at her sister, and detached her eyes from her with an effort.  “What did you say?” she demanded, with an absent bluntness.  “Oh yes.  Yes!  We went once.  Father took a box at the Metropolitan.”

“Then you got a good dose of Wagner, I suppose?” said March.

“What?” asked the girl.

“I don’t think Miss Dryfoos is very fond of Wagner’s music,” Mrs. Mandel said.  “I believe you are all great Wagnerites in Boston?”

“I’m a very bad Bostonian, Mrs. Mandel.  I suspect myself of preferring Verdi,” March answered.

Miss Dryfoos looked down at her fan again, and said, “I like ‘Trovatore’ the best.”

“It’s an opera I never get tired of,” said March, and Mrs. March and Mrs:  Mandel exchanged a smile of compassion for his simplicity.  He detected it, and added:  “But I dare say I shall come down with the Wagner fever in time.  I’ve been exposed to some malignant cases of it.”

“That night we were there,” said Miss Mela, “they had to turn the gas down all through one part of it, and the papers said the ladies were awful mad because they couldn’t show their diamonds.  I don’t wonder, if they all had to pay as much for their boxes as we did.  We had to pay sixty dollars.”  She looked at the Marches for their sensation at this expense.

March said:  “Well, I think I shall take my box by the month, then.  It must come cheaper, wholesale.”

“Oh no, it don’t,” said the girl, glad to inform him.  “The people that own their boxes, and that had to give fifteen or twenty thousand dollars apiece for them, have to pay sixty dollars a night whenever there’s a performance, whether they go or not.”

“Then I should go every night,” March said.

“Most of the ladies were low neck ­”

March interposed, “Well, I shouldn’t go low-neck.”

The girl broke into a fondly approving laugh at his drolling.  “Oh, I guess you love to train!  Us girls wanted to go low neck, too; but father said we shouldn’t, and mother said if we did she wouldn’t come to the front of the box once.  Well, she didn’t, anyway.  We might just as well ‘a’ gone low neck.  She stayed back the whole time, and when they had that dance ­the ballet, you know ­she just shut her eyes.  Well, Conrad didn’t like that part much, either; but us girls and Mrs. Mandel, we brazened it out right in the front of the box.  We were about the only ones there that went high neck.  Conrad had to wear a swallow-tail; but father hadn’t any, and he had to patch out with a white cravat.  You couldn’t see what he had on in the back o’ the box, anyway.”

Mrs. March looked at Miss Dryfoos, who was waving her fan more and more slowly up and down, and who, when she felt herself looked at, returned Mrs. March’s smile, which she meant to be ingratiating and perhaps sympathetic, with a flash that made her start, and then ran her fierce eyes over March’s face.  “Here comes mother,” she said, with a sort of breathlessness, as if speaking her thought aloud, and through the open door the Marches could see the old lady on the stairs.

She paused half-way down, and turning, called up:  “Coonrod!  Coonrod!  You bring my shawl down with you.”

Her daughter Mela called out to her, “Now, mother, Christine ’ll give it to you for not sending Mike.”

“Well, I don’t know where he is, Mely, child,” the mother answered back.  “He ain’t never around when he’s wanted, and when he ain’t, it seems like a body couldn’t git shet of him, nohow.”

“Well, you ought to ring for him!” cried Miss Mela, enjoying the joke.

Her mother came in with a slow step; her head shook slightly as she looked about the room, perhaps from nervousness, perhaps from a touch of palsy.  In either case the fact had a pathos which Mrs. March confessed in the affection with which she took her hard, dry, large, old hand when she was introduced to her, and in the sincerity which she put into the hope that she was well.

“I’m just middlin’,” Mrs. Dryfoos replied.  “I ain’t never so well, nowadays.  I tell fawther I don’t believe it agrees with me very well here, but he says I’ll git used to it.  He’s away now, out at Moffitt,” she said to March, and wavered on foot a moment before she sank into a chair.  She was a tall woman, who had been a beautiful girl, and her gray hair had a memory of blondeness in it like Lindau’s, March noticed.  She wore a simple silk gown, of a Quakerly gray, and she held a handkerchief folded square, as it had come from the laundress.  Something like the Sabbath quiet of a little wooden meeting-house in thick Western woods expressed itself to him from her presence.

“Laws, mother!” said Miss Mela; “what you got that old thing on for?  If I’d ‘a’ known you’d ‘a’ come down in that!”

“Coonrod said it was all right, Mely,” said her mother.

Miss Mela explained to the Marches:  “Mother was raised among the Dunkards, and she thinks it’s wicked to wear anything but a gray silk even for dress-up.”

“You hain’t never heared o’ the Dunkards, I reckon,” the old woman said to Mrs. March.  “Some folks calls ’em the Beardy Men, because they don’t never shave; and they wash feet like they do in the Testament.  My uncle was one.  He raised me.”

“I guess pretty much everybody’s a Beardy Man nowadays, if he ain’t a Dunkard!”

Miss Mela looked round for applause of her sally, but March was saying to his wife:  “It’s a Pennsylvania German sect, I believe ­something like the Quakers.  I used to see them when I was a boy.”

“Aren’t they something like the Mennists?” asked Mrs. Mandel.

“They’re good people,” said the old woman, “and the world ’d be a heap better off if there was more like ’em.”

Her son came in and laid a soft shawl over her shoulders before he shook hands with the visitors.  “I am glad you found your way here,” he said to them.

Christine, who had been bending forward over her fan, now lifted herself up with a sigh and leaned back in her chair.

“I’m sorry my father isn’t here,” said the young man to Mrs. March.  “He’s never met you yet?”

“No; and I should like to see him.  We hear a great deal about your father, you know, from Mr. Fulkerson.”

“Oh, I hope you don’t believe everything Mr. Fulkerson says about people,” Mela cried.  “He’s the greatest person for carrying on when he gets going I ever saw.  It makes Christine just as mad when him and mother gets to talking about religion; she says she knows he don’t care anything more about it than the man in the moon.  I reckon he don’t try it on much with father.”

“Your fawther ain’t ever been a perfessor,” her mother interposed; “but he’s always been a good church-goin’ man.”

“Not since we come to New York,” retorted the girl.

“He’s been all broke up since he come to New York,” said the old woman, with an aggrieved look.

Mrs. Mandel attempted a diversion.  “Have you heard any of our great New York preachers yet, Mrs. March?”

“No, I haven’t,” Mrs. March admitted; and she tried to imply by her candid tone that she intended to begin hearing them the very next Sunday.

“There are a great many things here,” said Conrad, “to take your thoughts off the preaching that you hear in most of the churches.  I think the city itself is preaching the best sermon all the time.”

“I don’t know that I understand you,” said March.

Mela answered for him.  “Oh, Conrad has got a lot of notions that nobody can understand.  You ought to see the church he goes to when he does go.  I’d about as lief go to a Catholic church myself; I don’t see a bit o’ difference.  He’s the greatest crony with one of their preachers; he dresses just like a priest, and he says he is a priest.”  She laughed for enjoyment of the fact, and her brother cast down his eyes.

Mrs. March, in her turn, tried to take from it the personal tone which the talk was always assuming.  “Have you been to the fall exhibition?” she asked Christine; and the girl drew herself up out of the abstraction she seemed sunk in.

“The exhibition?” She looked at Mrs. Mandel.

“The pictures of the Academy, you know,” Mrs. Mandel explained.  “Where I wanted you to go the day you had your dress tried on.”

“No; we haven’t been yet.  Is it good?” She had turned to Mrs. March again.

“I believe the fall exhibitions are never so good as the spring ones.  But there are some good pictures.”

“I don’t believe I care much about pictures,” said Christine.  “I don’t understand them.”

“Ah, that’s no excuse for not caring about them,” said March, lightly.  “The painters themselves don’t, half the time.”

The girl looked at him with that glance at once defiant and appealing, insolent and anxious, which he had noticed before, especially when she stole it toward himself and his wife during her sister’s babble.  In the light of Fulkerson’s history of the family, its origin and its ambition, he interpreted it to mean a sense of her sister’s folly and an ignorant will to override his opinion of anything incongruous in themselves and their surroundings.  He said to himself that she was deathly proud ­too proud to try to palliate anything, but capable of anything that would put others under her feet.  Her eyes seemed hopelessly to question his wife’s social quality, and he fancied, with not unkindly interest, the inexperienced girl’s doubt whether to treat them with much or little respect.  He lost himself in fancies about her and her ideals, necessarily sordid, of her possibilities of suffering, of the triumphs and disappointments before her.  Her sister would accept both with a lightness that would keep no trace of either; but in her they would sink lastingly deep.  He came out of his reverie to find Mrs. Dryfoos saying to him, in her hoarse voice: 

“I think it’s a shame, some of the pictur’s a body sees in the winders.  They say there’s a law ag’inst them things; and if there is, I don’t understand why the police don’t take up them that paints ’em.  I hear 182 tell, since I been here, that there’s women that goes to have pictur’s took from them that way by men painters.”  The point seemed aimed at March, as if he were personally responsible for the scandal, and it fell with a silencing effect for the moment.  Nobody seemed willing to take it up, and Mrs. Dryfoos went on, with an old woman’s severity:  “I say they ought to be all tarred and feathered and rode on a rail.  They’d be drummed out of town in Moffitt.”

Miss Mela said, with a crowing laugh:  “I should think they would!  And they wouldn’t anybody go low neck to the opera-house there, either ­not low neck the way they do here, anyway.”

“And that pack of worthless hussies,” her mother resumed, “that come out on the stage, and begun to kick”

“Laws, mother!” the girl shouted, “I thought you said you had your eyes shut!”

All but these two simpler creatures were abashed at the indecorum of suggesting in words the commonplaces of the theatre and of art.

“Well, I did, Mely, as soon as I could believe my eyes.  I don’t know what they’re doin’ in all their churches, to let such things go on,” said the old woman.  “It’s a sin and a shame, I think.  Don’t you, Coonrod?”

A ring at the door cut short whatever answer he was about to deliver.

“If it’s going to be company, Coonrod,” said his mother, making an effort to rise, “I reckon I better go up-stairs.”

“It’s Mr. Fulkerson, I guess,” said Conrad.  “He thought he might come”; and at the mention of this light spirit Mrs. Dryfoos sank contentedly back in her chair, and a relaxation of their painful tension seemed to pass through the whole company.  Conrad went to the door himself (the serving-man tentatively, appeared some minutes later) and let in Fulkerson’s cheerful voice before his cheerful person.

“Ah, how dye do, Conrad?  Brought our friend, Mr. Beaton, with me,” those within heard him say; and then, after a sound of putting off overcoats, they saw him fill the doorway, with his feet set square and his arms akimbo.