Oh, I LOVE a man that can do
that--make up his mind to a thing and then put it through!"
Condy watched her as she talked, her brown-black eyes coruscating,
her cheeks glowing, her small hands curled into round pink fists.
"Blix, you're splendid!" he exclaimed; "you're fine! You could put
life into a dead man. You're the kind of girl that are the making
of men. By Jove, you'd back a man up, wouldn't you? You'd stand
by him till the last ditch. Of course," he went on after a pause--
"of course I ought to go to New York. But, Blix, suppose I went--
well, then what? It isn't as though I had any income of my own,
or rich aunt. Suppose I didn't find something to do--and the
chances are that I wouldn't for three or four months--what would I
live on in the meanwhile? 'What would the robin do then, poor
thing?' I'm a poor young man, Miss Bessemer, and I've got to eat.
No; my only chance is 'to be discovered' by a magazine or a
publishing house or somebody, and get a bid of some kind."
"Well, there is the Centennial Company. They have taken an
interest in you, Condy. You must follow that right up and keep
your name before them all the time. Have you sent them 'A Victory
Over Death' yet?"
Condy sat down to his eggs and coffee the next morning in the
hotel, harried with a certain sense of depression and
disappointment for which he could assign no cause. Nothing seemed
to interest him. The newspaper was dull. He could look forward
to no pleasure in his day's work; and what was the matter with the
sun that morning? As he walked down to the office he noted no
cloud in the sky, but the brightness was gone from the day.
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