The
letter was a veritable god from the machine, the one thing lacking
to complete their happiness.
"I don't know how this looks to you," Condy began, trying to be
calm, "but it seems to me that this is--that this--this--"
But what they said then they could never afterward remember. The
golden haze of the sunset somehow got into their recollection of
the moment, and they could only recall the fact that they had been
gayer in that moment than ever before in all their lives.
Perhaps as gay as they ever were to be again. They began to know
the difference between gayety and happiness. That New Year's Day,
that sunset, marked for them an end and a beginning. It was the
end of their gay, irresponsible, hour-to-hour life of the past
three months; and it was the beginning of a new life, whose
possibilities of sorrow and of trouble, of pleasure and of
happiness, were greater than aught they had yet experienced. They
knew this--they felt it instinctively, as with a common impulse
they turned and looked back upon the glowing earth and sea and
sky, the breaking surf, the beach, the distant, rime-incrusted,
ancient fort--all that scene that to their eyes stood for the
dear, free, careless companionship of those last few months.
Their new-found happiness was not without its sadness already.
All was over now; their solitary walks, the long, still evenings
in the little dining-room overlooking the sleeping city, their
excursions to Luna's, their afternoons spent in the golden Chinese
balcony, their mornings on the lake, calm and still and hot.
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