For the next hour or so he read to her from "The Seven Seas,"
while the afternoon passed, the wind stirring the chaparral and
blackberry bushes in the hollows of the huge, bare hills, the surf
rolling and grumbling on the beach below, the sea-birds wheeling
overhead. Blix listened intently, but Condy could not have told
of what he was reading. Living was better than reading, life was
better than literature, and his new-found love for her was poetry
enough for him. He read so that he might not talk to her or look
at her, for it seemed to him at times as though some second self
in him would speak and betray him in spite of his best efforts.
Never before in all his life had he been so happy; never before
had he been so troubled. He began to jumble the lines and words
as he read, over-running periods, even turning two pages at once.
"What a splendid line!" Blix exclaimed.
"What line--what--what are you talking about? Blix, let's always
remember to-day. Let's make a promise, no matter what happens or
where we are, let's always write to each other on the anniversary
of to-day. What do you say?"
"Yes; I'll promise--and you--"
"I'll promise faithfully. Oh, I'll never forget to-day nor--yes,
yes, I'll promise--why, to-day--Blix--where's that damn book
gone?"
"Condy!"
"Well, I can't find the book. You're sitting on it again.
Confound the book, anyway! Let's walk some more."
"We've a long ways to go if we're to get home in time for supper.
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