Blix had steadied him,
there was no denying that. He was not quite the same boyish,
hairbrained fellow who had made "a buffoon of himself" in the
Chinese restaurant, three months before.
The cars had stopped running by the time Condy reached the street.
He walked home and flung himself to bed, his mind tired, his
nerves unstrung, and all the blood of his body apparently
concentrated in his brain. Working at night after writing all day
long was telling upon him, and he knew it.
What with his work and his companionship with Blix, Condy soon
began to drop out of his wonted place in his "set." He was
obliged to decline one invitation after another that would take
him out in the evening, and instead of lunching at his club with
Sargeant or George Hands, as he had been accustomed to do at one
time, he fell into another habit of lunching with Blix at the flat
on Washington Street, and spending the two hours allowed to him in
the middle of the day in her company.
Condy's desertion of them was often spoken of by the men of his
club with whom he had been at one time so intimate, and the
subject happened to be brought up again one noon when Jack Carter
was in the club as George Hands' guest. Hands, Carter, and Eckert
were at one of the windows over their after-dinner cigars and
liqueurs.
"I say," said Eckert suddenly, "who's that girl across the street
there--the one in black, just going by that furrier's sign? I've
seen her somewhere before.
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