Fulkerson rose. “Well, well! I've got to see about it. I'm afraid the old man won't stand it, March; I am, indeed. I wish you'd reconsider. I—I'd take it as a personal favor if you would. It leaves me in a fix. You see I've got to side with one or the other.”
March made no reply to this, except to say, “Yes, you must stand by him, or you must stand by me.”
“Well, well! Hold on awhile! I'll see you in the morning. Don't take any steps—”
“Oh, there are no steps to take,” said March, with a melancholy smile. “The steps are stopped; that's all.” He sank back into his chair when Fulkerson was gone and drew a long breath. “This is pretty rough. I thought we had got through it.”
“No,” said his wife. “It seems as if I had to make the fight all over again.”
“Well, it's a good thing it's a holy war.”
“I can't bear the suspense. Why didn't you tell him outright you wouldn't go back on any terms?”
“I might as well, and got the glory. He'll never move Dryfoos. I suppose we both would like to go back, if we could.”
“Oh, I suppose so.”
They could not regain their lost exaltation, their lost dignity. At dinner Mrs. March asked the children how they would like to go back to Boston to live.