His large blue eyes were somewhat prominent; and his rather narrow face was drawn forward in a nose a little too long perhaps, if it had not been for the full chin deeply cut below the lip, and jutting firmly forward.
"Introduce you to Mr.March, our editor, Mr.Beaton," Fulkerson said, rolling his head in the direction of the elder man; and then nodding it toward the younger, he said, "Mr.Dryfoos, Mr.Beaton." Beaton shook hands with March, and then with Mr.Dryfoos, and Fulkerson went on, gayly: "We were just talking of you, Beaton--well, you know the old saying.

Mr.March, as I told you, is our editor, and Mr.Dryfoos has charge of the publishing department--he's the counting-room incarnate, the source of power, the fountain of corruption, the element that prevents journalism being the high and holy thing that it would be if there were no money in it." Mr.Dryfoos turned his large, mild eyes upon Beaton, and laughed with the uneasy concession which people make to a character when they do not quite approve of the character's language.
"What Mr.March and I are trying to do is to carry on this thing so that there won't be any money in it--or very little; and we're planning to give the public a better article for the price than it's ever had before.

Now here's a dummy we've had made up for 'Every Other Week', and as we've decided to adopt it, we would naturally like your opinion of it, so's to know what opinion to have of you." He reached forward and pushed toward Beaton a volume a little above the size of the ordinary duodecimo book; its ivory-white pebbled paper cover was prettily illustrated with a water-colored design irregularly washed over the greater part of its surface: quite across the page at top, and narrowing from right to left as it descended.

In the triangular space left blank the title of the periodical and the publisher's imprint were tastefully lettered so as to be partly covered by the background of color.
"It's like some of those Tartarin books of Daudet's," said Beacon, looking at it with more interest than he suffered to be seen.

"But it's a book, not a magazine." He opened its pages of thick, mellow white paper, with uncut leaves, the first few pages experimentally printed in the type intended to be used, and illustrated with some sketches drawn into and over the text, for the sake of the effect.
"A Daniel--a Daniel come to judgment! Sit down, Dan'el, and take it easy." Fulkerson pushed a chair toward Beaton, who dropped into it.
"You're right, Dan'el; it's a book, to all practical intents and purposes.