"Lots can happen in four
years. Wonder what I'll be doing at the end of four years? We've
had a pleasant time while it lasted, Blix."
"Haven't we?" she said, her chin on her hand, the moonlight
shining in her little, dark-brown eyes.
Well, he was going to lose her. He had found out that he loved
her only in time to feel the wrench of parting from her all the
more keenly. What was he to do with himself after she was gone?
What could he turn to in order to fill up the great emptiness that
her going would leave in his daily life? And was she never to know
how dear she was to him? Why not speak to her, why not tell her
that he loved her? But Condy knew that Blix did not love him, and
the knowledge of that must keep him silent; he must hug his secret
to him, like the Spartan boy with his stolen fox, no matter how
grievously it hurt him to do so. He and Blix had lived through
two months of rarest, most untroubled happiness, with hardly more
self-consciousness than two young and healthy boys. To bring that
troublous, disquieting element of love between them--unrequited
love, of all things--would be a folly. She would tell him--must
in all honesty tell him that she did not love him, and all their
delicious camaraderie would end in a "scene." Condy, above
everything, wished to look back on those two months, after she had
gone, without being able to remember therein one single note that
jarred. If the memory of her was all that he was to have, he
resolved that at least that memory should be perfect.
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