Then, as his tired eyes closed at last, occurred that strange
trick of picture-making that the overtaxed brain plays upon the
retina. A swift series of pictures of the day's doings began to
whirl THROUGH rather than BEFORE the pupils of his shut eyes.
Condy saw again a brief vision of the street, and Blix upon the
corner waiting to cross; then it was the gay, brisk confusion of
the water-front, the old mate's cabin aboard the whaleback,
Chinatown, and a loop of vermilion cloth over a gallery rail, the
golden balcony, the glint of the Stevenson ship upon the green
Plaza, Blix playing the banjo, the delightful and picturesque
confusion of the deserted Chinese restaurant; Blix again, turning
her head for him to fasten her veil, holding the ends with her
white-kid fingers; Blix once more, walking at his side with her
trim black skirt, her round little turban hat, her yellow hair,
and her small dark, dancing eyes.
Then, suddenly, he remembered the promise he had made her in the
matter of playing that night. He winced sharply at this, and the
remembrance of his fault harried and harassed him. In spite of
himself, he felt contemptible. Yet he had broken his promises to
her in this very matter of playing before--before that day of
their visit to the Chinese restaurant--and had felt no great qualm
of self-reproach. Had their relations changed? Rather the reverse
for they had done with "foolishness."
"Never worried me before," muttered Condy, as he punched up his
pillow--"never worried me before.
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