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Updated: May 31, 2025
A newspaper with a sworn circulation of half a million published an original and spontaneous poem by Helen Della Delmar, in which she gibed and sneered at Brissenden. Also, she was guilty of a second poem, in which she parodied him. Martin had many times to be glad that Brissenden was dead. He had hated the crowd so, and here all that was finest and most sacred of him had been thrown to the crowd.
Brissenden leave any address?" he asked the clerk, who looked at him curiously for a moment. "Haven't you heard?" he asked. Martin shook his head. "Why, the papers were full of it. He was found dead in bed. Suicide. Shot himself through the head." "Is he buried yet?" Martin seemed to hear his voice, like some one else's voice, from a long way off, asking the question. "No.
"I could certainly eat you alive," Martin said, in turn running insolent eyes over the other's disease-ravaged frame. "Only I'm not worthy of it?" "On the contrary," Martin considered, "because the incident is not worthy." He broke into a laugh, hearty and wholesome. "I confess you made a fool of me, Brissenden.
"Maybe nobody will be there," Brissenden said, when they dismounted and plunged off to the right into the heart of the working-class ghetto, south of Market Street. "In which case you'll miss what you've been looking for so long." "And what the deuce is that?" Martin asked. "Men, intelligent men, and not the gibbering nonentities I found you consorting with in that trader's den.
Mental exhaustion did not produce a craving for liquor such as physical exhaustion did, and he had felt no need for it. But just now he felt desire for the drink, or, rather, for the atmosphere wherein drinks were dispensed and disposed of. Such a place was the Grotto, where Brissenden and he lounged in capacious leather chairs and drank Scotch and soda. They talked.
An unlucky chance did that. Or a lucky one. Who knows? He began to think: If this woman had enjoyed the social advantages to which Agnes Brissenden and those others were doubtless indebted for so much of their charm, would she not have been their equal, or more? For the first time he compassionated Rhoda. She was brave, and circumstances had not been kind to her.
It is the truth of the sneer, stamped out from the black iron of the Cosmos and interwoven with mighty rhythms of sound into a fabric of splendor and beauty. And now I won't say another word. I am overwhelmed, crushed. Yes, I will, too. Let me market it for you." Brissenden grinned. "There's not a magazine in Christendom that would dare to publish it you know that." "I know nothing of the sort.
"It's good advertising, Martin, old boy," Brissenden repeated solemnly. "And it was a favor to me think of that!" was Martin's contribution. "Let me see where were you born, Mr. Eden?" the cub asked, assuming an air of expectant attention. "He doesn't take notes," said Brissenden. "He remembers it all." "That is sufficient for me." The cub was trying not to look worried.
Brissenden's face and long, slender hands were browned by the sun excessively browned, Martin thought. This sunburn bothered Martin. It was patent that Brissenden was no outdoor man. Then how had he been ravaged by the sun?
"You do not object to having your picture taken, Mr. Eden?" he said. "I've a staff photographer outside, you see, and he says it will be better to take you right away before the sun gets lower. Then we can have the interview afterward." "A photographer," Brissenden said meditatively. "Poke him, Martin! Poke him!" "I guess I'm getting old," was the answer.
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