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Updated: June 2, 2025
I was a little troubled over this effusion, as it seemed to indicate that Bagster had reached the limit of elasticity. A few days later I received a letter asking me to call upon him. I found him in a state of uncertainty over his own condition. "I want you," he said, "to listen to the report my stenographer has handed me, of an address which I gave day before yesterday.
Florence Bagster had accepted the situation with enthusiasm, writing that she longed to be again with her former mistress; she did not write that the mysterious and magnetic name of Brighton called her more loudly than the name of her former mistress. And now Florence was due. But it was not Florence who emerged from the cab.
"And do you know," said Bagster, "that when I reached to give him the right hand of fellowship, he wasn't there." We sat in silence for some time. At last he asked, hesitatingly, "What do you think of it? In your judgment is it organic or functional?" "I do not think it is organic. I am afraid that your conscience has been over-functioning of late, and needs a rest.
And the next moments were made smooth by reason of a great piece of news which, forcing Sarah Gailey to communicate it at once, monopolized attention, and so entirely relieved the bride's self-consciousness. Florence Bagster, having insolently quarrelled with her mistress, had left her service without notice. Mr.
But she objected far more strongly to his attitude because he was fat and looked somewhat coarse. She counted his obesity to him for a sin. And it was naught to her that he had been a martyr to idleness and wealth, which combination had prematurely aged him. Mr. Boutwood was really younger than George Cannon, and Florence Bagster certainly seemed as old as Hilda.
My address doesn't seem to be as closely reasoned as it did when I was delivering it. Does it seem to you to be cogent?" "Cogent is not precisely the word I would use. But it seems earnest." "Thank you," said Bagster. "I always try to be earnest. It's hard to be earnest about so many things. I am always afraid that I may not give to all an equal emphasis."
Historical instances will suggest themselves to every reader. Some of the most interesting I have read occur in a brief memoir of the founder of the Bagster Publishing Company issued on the centenary of its opening. De Oraculorum Defectu, quoted by Heubner in his commentary, in loc. stenagmos ama thaumasmo. Heb. x. 19-22.
I don't like to think of such spiritual wealth as ill-gotten." "I am sorry," said Bagster, "to see that your sympathies are with the privileged classes." Several weeks ago I received a letter which revealed his state of mind: I hope that I am not uncharitable, but I have a suspicion that our poets yield sometimes to the desire to please. They are perhaps unconscious of the subtle temptation.
"And now that you have stopped for a moment," I suggested, "perhaps you would be willing to skip to the last page. When I read a story I am always anxious to get to the end. I should like to know how your address comes out, if it does come out." Bagster turned over a dozen pages and read in a more animated manner.
Take that occasion for a leisurely meal. A card will be handed to you assuring you that 'The bell will ring one minute before the departure of the train. You can't get left. Hold that thought: you can't get left; the railroad authorities say so." "Did you ever try it," asked Bagster. "Once," I answered. "And did you get left?" "Portsmouth," I said, "is a beautiful old town.
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