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The gardens of that California Hesperides were already getting dim in Milly's memory, blotted out by a more intoxicating vision. The next meeting was not farther off than the next noon. They lunched together, to talk further of their collaboration, and from luncheon went to the Art Institute to see the pictures, most of which Bragdon disposed off condescendingly as "old-style stuff."
It seemed to me, in short, that a poem by Bragdon, while it might easily show the poet's fancy, could not fail to show also the produce-broker's clumsiness of touch. His charm was the spontaneity of his spoken words, his enthusiastic personality disarming all criticism; what the labored productions of his fancy might prove to be, I hardly dared think.
Her brother-in-law had asked her to look through her husband's papers for an insurance policy he thought Jack had taken on his advice. In the old desk Bragdon had used there was a mass of letters and bills, a great many unpaid bills, some of which she had given him months and months before and had supposed were paid.
Two small boats were racing to the place where Reggy's unknown had gone over. "Where is Brewster?" shouted Joe Bragdon. "I can't find him, sir," answered the first mate. "He ought to know of this," cried Mr. Valentine. "There! By the eternal, they are picking somebody up over yonder," exclaimed the mate. "See! that first boat has laid to and they are dragging yes, sir, he's saved!"
"Give them two glasses first, if you like, and then they won't mind if they have cider the rest of the night." "Monty is plain dotty," chimed Bragdon, "and the pace is beginning to tell on him." As a matter of fact the pace was beginning to tell on Brewster. Work and worry were plainly having an effect on his health.
Bragdon was a promising chap, the great painter pronounced at déjeuner, willing to work, intelligent, with his own ideas. Had any one seen Madame Saratoff's portrait? He had kept very quiet about that perhaps it had not come off. Well, he needed years of hard work, which he wouldn't get in America, worse luck.
And Bragdon" this in a lower voice "will you see that his wages are properly increased? Hello, Peggy! Look out, you'll get wet to the skin if you do that." If Montgomery Brewster had had any misgivings about his ability to dispose of the balance of his fortune they were dispelled very soon after his party landed in the Riviera.
Bragdon, at least, knew what he hoped for, impossible as it might be, a total escape from the debauching work he was doing. Milly hoped vaguely for a pleasanter apartment and an easier way of living, more friends and more good times with them. One of the first familiar faces Milly met in the bewildering new city was Marion Reddon's.
"I guess not." Bragdon gave her a swift glance, but said nothing. This was a new aspect of his wife, and it evidently puzzled him. He was too much absorbed by his picture, however, to give much heed to anything.
I think I should have suffocated in an open field with those literary remains of Thomas Bragdon heaped about me that night. On my return I went immediately to bed, feeling by no means in the mood to read The Poems of Thomas Bragdon.
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