The months that were to follow would be one long ache, one long,
harsh, colorless grind without her. How was he to get through
that first evening that he must pass alone? And she did not care
for him. Condy at last knew this to be so. Even the poor solace
of knowing that she, too, was unhappy was denied him. She had
never loved him, and never would. He was a chum to her, nothing
more. Condy was too clear-headed to deceive himself upon this
point. The time was come for her to go away, and she had given
him no sign, no cue.
The last days passed; Blix's trunk was packed, her half section
engaged, her ticket bought. They said good-by to the old places
they had come to know so well--Chinatown, the Golden Balcony, the
water-front, the lake of San Andreas, Telegraph Hill, and Luna's--
and had bade farewell to Riccardo and to old Richardson. They had
left K. D. B. and Captain Jack until the last day. Blix was to go
on the second of January. On New Year's Day she and Condy were to
take their last walk, were to go out to the lifeboat station, and
then on around the shore to the little amphitheatre of blackberry
bushes--where they had promised always to write one another on the
anniversary of their first visit--and then for the last time climb
the hill, and go across the breezy downs to the city.
Then came the last day of the old year, the last day but one that
they would be together. They spent it in a long ramble along the
water-front, following the line of the shipping even as far as
Meiggs's Wharf.
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