"No, we don't want any to-day. We HAVE the biography of
Abraham Lincoln. Don't want to subscribe to any Home Book of Art.
We're not artistic; we use drapes in our parlors. Don't want 'The
Wives and Mothers of Great Men.'"
But Condy had noticed a couple of young women on the lower steps
of the adjacent flat, quite within ear-shot, and at once he began
in a loud, harsh voice:
"Well, y' know, we can't wait for our rent forever; I'm only the
collector, and I've nothing to do with repairs. Pay your rent
that's three months overdue, and then--
But Blix pulled him within the house and clapped to the door.
"Condy RIVERS!" she exclaimed, her cheeks flaming, "those are our
neighbors. They heard every word. What do you suppose they
think?"
"Huh! I'd rather have 'em think I was a rent-collector than a
book-agent. You began it. 'Evenin', Miss Lady."
"'Evenin', Mister Man."
But Condy's visit, begun thus gayly, soon developed along much
more serious lines. After supper, while the light still lasted,
Blix read stories to him while he smoked cigarettes in the bay
window of the dining-room. But as soon as the light began to go
she put the book aside, and the two took their accustomed places
in the window, and watched the evening burning itself out over the
Golden Gate.
It was just warm enough to have one of the windows opened, and for
a long time after the dusk they sat listening to the vague clamor
of the city, lapsing by degrees, till it settled into a measured,
soothing murmur, like the breathing of some vast monster asleep.
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