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Updated: June 8, 2025
Bousefield there was nothing to show that I was not tolerably successful: each case therefore presented a promising analogy for the other. He never noticed my descent, and it was accordingly possible that Mr. Bousefield would never notice his. But would nobody notice it at all? that was a question that added a prospective zest to one's possession of a critical sense.
Bousefield says he has killed it." Then perceiving my stupefaction: "Don't you know what has happened?" she pursued; "isn't it because in his trouble, poor love, he has sent for you that you've come? You've heard nothing at all? Then you had better know before you see them. Get in here with me I'll take you a turn and tell you."
Bousefield was not to be too definitely warned that such a periodical was exposed to prostitution. By the time he should find it out for himself the public le gros public would have bitten, and then perhaps he would be conciliated and forgive. Everything else would be literary in short, and above all I would be; only Ralph Limbert wouldn't he'd chuck up the whole thing sooner.
Bousefield really arrived with an ultimatum: it had the form of something or other by Minnie Meadows." "Minnie Meadows?" I was stupefied. "The new lady-humourist every one is talking about. It's the first of a series of screaming sketches for which poor Ray was to find a place." "Is that Mr. Bousefield's idea of literature?"
"It will never do in the world he must stoop to Minnie!" "It's too late and what I've told you still isn't all. Mr. Bousefield raises another objection." "What other, pray?" "Can't you guess?" I wondered. "No more of Ray's fiction?" "Not a line. That's something else no magazine can stand. Now that his novel has run its course Mr. Bousefield is distinctly disappointed."
It had come to pass that very day, from one hour to another, without time for appeals or ponderations: Mr. Bousefield, the proprietor of a "high-class monthly," making, as they said, a sudden change, had dropped on him heavily out of the blue. It was all right there was a salary and an idea, and both of them, as such things went, rather high.
Bousefield caused him, I fear, in professional circles to be thought impracticable, and I am perfectly aware, to speak candidly, that no sordid advantage ever accrued to him from such public patronage of my performances as he had occasionally been in a position to offer.
So much depended upon it that I was rather relieved than otherwise not to know the answer too soon. I waited in fact a year the year for which Limbert had cannily engaged on trial with Mr. Bousefield; the year as to which through the same sharpened shrewdness it had been conveyed in the agreement between them that Mr. Bousefield was not to intermeddle.
He wanted literature, he saw the great reaction coming, the way the cat was going to jump. "Where will you get literature?" I wofully asked; to which he replied with a laugh that what he had to get was not literature but only what Bousefield would take for it. In that single phrase without more ado I discovered his famous remedy.
Highmore asked me if I had heard the news that a verdict of some sort had already been rendered. "What news? about the book?" "About that horrid magazine. They're shockingly upset. He has lost his position he has had a fearful flare-up with Mr. Bousefield." I stood there blank, but not unaware in my blankness of how history repeats itself.
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