March and Beaton remained alone together for a moment, and March said: “I hope you will think it worth while to take hold with us, Mr. Beaton. Mr. Fulkerson puts it in his own way, of course; but we really want to make a nice thing of the magazine.” He had that timidity of the elder in the presence of the younger man which the younger, preoccupied with his own timidity in the presence of the elder, cannot imagine. Besides, March was aware of the gulf that divided him as a literary man from Beaton as an artist, and he only ventured to feel his way toward sympathy with him. “We want to make it good; we want to make it high. Fulkerson is right about aiming to please the women, but of course he caricatures the way of going about it.” For answer, Beaton flung out, “I can't go in for a thing I don't understand the plan of.” March took it for granted that he had wounded some exposed sensibility, of Beaton's. He continued still more deferentially: “Mr. Fulkerson's notion--I must say the notion is his, evolved from his syndicate experience--is that we shall do best in fiction to confine our selves to short stories, and make each number complete in itself. He found that the most successful things he could furnish his newspapers were short stories; we Americans are supposed to excel in writing them; and most people begin with them in fiction; and it's Mr. Fulkerson's idea to work unknown talent, as he says, and so he thinks he can not only get them easily, but can gradually form a school of short-story writers. I can't say I follow him altogether, but I respect his experience. We shall not despise translations of short stories, but otherwise the matter will all be original, and, of course, it won't all be short stories. We shall use sketches of travel, and essays, and little dramatic studies, and bits of biography and history; but all very light, and always short enough to be completed in a single number. Mr. Fulkerson believes in pictures, and most of the things would be capable of illustration.” “I see,” said Beaton. “I don't know but this is the whole affair,” said March, beginning to stiffen a little at the young man's reticence. “I understand. Thank you for taking the trouble to explain. Good-morning.” Beaton bowed himself off, without offering to shake hands. Fulkerson came in after a while from the outer office, and Mr. Dryfoos followed him. “Well, what do you think of our art editor?” “Is he our art editor?” asked March. “I wasn't quite certain when he left.” “Did he take the books?” “Yes, he took the books.” “I guess he's all right, then.” Fulkerson added, in concession to the umbrage he detected in March. “Beaton has his times of being the greatest ass in the solar system, but he usually takes it out in personal conduct. When it comes to work, he's a regular horse.” “He appears to have compromised for the present by being a perfect mule,” said March.