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Updated: May 3, 2025
A few days later he got the proof-sheets of Reinhard's novel from the trunk, where they had been lying neglected, and worked diligently on the foolish sketches required by the text to illustrate the hero and heroine in their "tense" moments. He finished the job before they left Paris in March, which was his male way of acknowledging the new obligation that was on its way.
Taking Reinhard's solemn asseveration in conjunction with the ascertained facts of Raspe's career, his undoubted acquaintance with the Baron Munchausen of real life and the first appearance of the work in 1785, when Raspe was certainly in England, there seems to be little difficulty in accepting his authorship as a positive fact.
He succeeded without much difficulty in securing the illustration of Reinhard's new piece of popular sentimentality and also put himself in touch with the editors of a new magazine. Then to work, not his own work, but the world's work, what it apparently wanted, at least would pay well for.
"You don't seem much interested in their being in New York." "Oh," he said lightly, "every one comes to New York." And he turned to his evening task. This habit of working evenings, which Milly rather resented, served to prevent discussion of all kinds. She played a few bars on the piano, then settled herself comfortably with Clive Reinhard's latest book.
Tired at last with so much meditation, Milly bought a novel from the newsboy, "Clive Reinhard's Latest and Best" A Woman's Will, and buried herself in its pages. "Ernestine," Milly announced gravely that first night after Virginia was tucked in bed, "I've something important to say to you." "What is it, dearie?" Ernestine inquired apprehensively.
Some of the men Bragdon knew were interested in the new magazine, and one of the first jobs he did was a cover design for an early number. The magazine with his picture a Brittany girl knee-deep in the dark water helping to unload a fishing boat lay on the centre table for weeks. Clive Reinhard's new novel, for which Jack did the pictures, also came out in Bunker's this year.
It was in August, in a sweltering heat which made itself felt even beside the Maine sea, that a telegram came from Clive Reinhard, very brief but none the less disturbing. "Your husband here ill better come." The telegram was dated from Caromneck, Reinhard's place on the Sound.... By the time Milly had made the long journey her husband was dead. Reinhard met her at the station in his car.
She paused to laugh sympathetically and look at Milly, as if she must understand what foolish creatures men often were and how wives like Milly and herself had to save them from their follies. "Of course," she continued, "if he had had Reinhard's luck, it would have been another thing. Clive Reinhard's stuff is just rot, of course, but people like it and he gets all kinds of prices."
On the whole the sale would have been a dreary failure if it had not been for Bunker's liberal purchases and Reinhard's taking all that was unsold "to dispose of privately among Jack's friends." The hard truth was that Jack Bragdon had not shaken the New York firmament, certainly had not knocked a gilt star from its zenith.
On the contrary, they seemed to be not a little impressed with the theological learning and dogmatical science of these two so-called Doctors, who, in rare self-satisfaction, found life and complete happiness in Reinhard's supernaturalism. Pioneer Pastors in South Carolina.
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