But it was all one with
them; they ate as though at a banquet, and Blix even took off her
hat and hung it upon one of the nearby bushes. Of course Condy
had forgotten a corkscrew. He tried to dig out the cork of the
claret bottle with his knife, until he had broken both blades and
was about to give up in despair, when Blix, at the end of her
patience, took the bottle from him and pushed in the cork with her
finger.
"Wine, music, literature, and feasting," observed Condy. "We're
getting regularly luxurious, just like Sardine-apalus."
But Condy himself had suddenly entered into an atmosphere of
happiness, the like of which he had never known or dreamed of
before. He loved Blix--he had just discovered it. He loved her
because she was so genuine, so radiantly fresh and strong; loved
her because she liked the things that he liked, because they two
looked at the world from precisely the same point of view, hating
shams and affectations, happy in the things that were simple and
honest and natural. He loved her because she liked his books,
appreciating the things therein that he appreciated, liking what
he liked, disapproving of what he condemned. He loved her because
she was nineteen, and because she was so young and unspoiled and
was happy just because the ocean was blue and the morning fine.
He loved her because she was so pretty, because of the softness of
her yellow hair, because of her round, white forehead and pink
cheeks, because of her little, dark-brown eyes, with that look in
them as if she were just done smiling or just about to smile, one
could not say which; loved her because of her good, firm mouth and
chin, because of her full neck and its high, tight bands of white
satin.
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