They both experienced a buoyant relief, such as seems to come to people who begin life anew on whatever terms. “I hope we are young enough yet, Basil,” she said, and she would not have it when he said they had once been younger.
They heard the children's knock on the door; they knocked when they came home from school so that their mother might let them in. “Shall we tell them at once?” she asked, and ran to open for them before March could answer.
They were not alone. Fulkerson, smiling from ear to ear, was with them. “Is March in?” he asked.
“Mr. March is at home, yes,” she said very haughtily. “He's in his study,” and she led the way there, while the children went to their rooms.
“Well, March,” Fulkerson called out at sight of him, “it's all right! The old man has come down.”
“I suppose if you gentlemen are going to talk business—” Mrs. March began.
“Oh, we don't want you to go away,” said Fulkerson. “I reckon March has told you, anyway.”
“Yes, I've told her,” said March. “Don't go, Isabel. What do you mean, Fulkerson?”
“He's just gone on up home, and he sent me round with his apologies. He sees now that he had no business to speak to you as he did, and he withdraws everything. He'd 'a' come round himself if I'd said so, but I told him I could make it all right.”
Fulkerson looked so happy in having the whole affair put right, and the Marches knew him to be so kindly affected toward them, that they could not refuse for the moment to share his mood. They felt themselves slipping down from the moral height which they had gained, and March made a clutch to stay himself with the question, “And Lindau?”