He was a little ashamed afterward of the resolution it had cost him to do so.It was not a question of Dryfoos's physical presence:that was rather effective than otherwise,and carried a suggestion of moneyed indifference to convention in the gray business suit of provincial cut,and the low,wide-brimmed hat of flexible black felt.He had a stick with an old-fashioned top of buckhorn worn smooth and bright by the palm of his hand,which had not lost its character in fat,and which had a history of former work in its enlarged knuckles,though it was now as soft as March's,and must once have been small even for a man of Mr.
Dryfoos's stature;he was below the average size.But what struck March was the fact that Dryfoos seemed furtively conscious of being a country person,and of being aware that in their meeting he was to be tried by other tests than those which would have availed him as a shrewd speculator.He evidently had some curiosity about March,as the first of his kind whom he bad encountered;some such curiosity as the country school trustee feels and tries to hide in the presence of the new schoolmaster.But the whole affair was,of course,on a higher plane;on one side Dryfoos was much more a man of the world than March was,and he probably divined this at once,and rested himself upon the fact in a measure.It seemed to be his preference that his son should introduce them,for he came upstairs with Conrad,and they had fairly made acquaintance before Fulkerson joined them.
Conrad offered to leave them at once,but his father made him stay.
"I reckon Mr.March and I haven't got anything so private to talk about that we want to keep it from the other partners.Well,Mr.March,are you getting used to New York yet?It takes a little time.""Oh yes.But not so much time as most places.Everybody belongs more or less in New York;nobody has to belong here altogether.""Yes,that is so.You can try it,and go away if you don't like it a good deal easier than you could from a smaller place.Wouldn't make so much talk,would it?"He glanced at March with a jocose light in his shrewd eyes."That is the way I feel about it all the time:just visiting.Now,it wouldn't be that way in Boston,I reckon?""You couldn't keep on visiting there your whole life,"said March.
Dryfoos laughed,showing his lower teeth in a way that was at once simple and fierce."Mr.Fulkerson didn't hardly know as he could get you to leave.I suppose you got used to it there.I never been in your city.""I had got used to it;but it was hardly my city,except by marriage.My wife's a Bostonian.""She's been a little homesick here,then,"said Dryfoos,with a smile of the same quality as his laugh.
"Less than I expected,"said March."Of course,she was very much attached to our old home.""I guess my wife won't ever get used to New York,"said Dryfoos,and he drew in his lower lip with a sharp sigh."But my girls like it;they're young.You never been out our way yet,Mr.March?Out West?""Well,only for the purpose of being born,and brought up.I used to live in Crawfordsville,and then Indianapolis.""Indianapolis is bound to be a great place,"said Dryfoos."I remember now,Mr.Fulkerson told me you was from our State."He went on to brag of the West,as if March were an Easterner and had to be convinced.
"You ought to see all that country.It's a great country.""Oh yes,"said March,"I understand that."He expected the praise of the great West to lead up to some comment on 'Every Other Week';and there was abundant suggestion of that topic in the manuscripts,proofs of letter-press and illustrations,with advance copies of the latest number strewn over his table.
But Dryfoos apparently kept himself from looking at these things.
He rolled his head about on his shoulders to take in the character of the room,and said to his son,"You didn't change the woodwork,after all.""No;the architect thought we had better let it be,unless we meant to change the whole place.He liked its being old-fashioned.""I hope you feel comfortable here,Mr.March,"the old man said,bringing his eyes to bear upon him again after their tour of inspection.
"Too comfortable for a working-man,"said March,and he thought that this remark must bring them to some talk about his work,but the proprietor only smiled again.
"I guess I sha'n't lose much on this house,"he returned,as if musing aloud."This down-town property is coming up.Business is getting in on all these side streets.I thought I paid a pretty good price for it,too."He went on to talk of real estate,and March began to feel a certain resentment at his continued avoidance of the only topic in which they could really have a common interest."You live down this way somewhere,don't you?"the old man concluded.
"Yes.I wished to be near my work."March was vexed with himself for having recurred to it;but afterward he was not sure but Dryfoos shared his own diffidence in the matter,and was waiting for him to bring it openly into the talk.At times he seemed wary and masterful,and then March felt that he was being examined and tested;at others so simple that March might well have fancied that he needed encouragement,and desired it.He talked of his wife and daughters in a way that invited March to say friendly things of his family,which appeared to give the old man first an undue pleasure and then a final distrust.At moments he turned,with an effect of finding relief in it,to his son and spoke to him across March of matters which he was unacquainted with;he did not seem aware that this was rude,but the young man must have felt it so;he always brought the conversation back,and once at some cost to himself when his father made it personal.
"I want to make a regular New York business man out of that fellow,"he said to March,pointing at Conrad with his stick."You s'pose I'm ever going to do it?""Well,I don't know,"said March,trying to fall in with the joke.
