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"That," declared Blix as they climbed into the old buggy which was to take them to the train, "was the one thing necessary. That made the day perfect." They reached the city at dusk, and sent their fish, lunch-basket, and rods up to the Bessemers' flat by a messenger boy with an explanatory note for Blix's father. "Now," said Condy, "for Luna's and the matrimonial objects."
Blix's cheeks were ruddy, her little dark-brown eyes fairly coruscating with pleasure. "Condy, isn't it all splendid?" she suddenly burst out. "I feel regularly bigger," he declared solemnly. "I could do anything a morning like this." Then they came to the lake, and to Richardson's, where the farmer lived who was also the custodian of the lake.
But days went by, the time set for Blix's departure drew nearer and nearer, and yet she gave him not the slightest sign. These two interests had now absorbed his entire life for the moment his love for Blix, and his novel. Little by little "In Defiance of Authority" took shape. But here a new difficulty was encountered. "What do I know about ships?" Condy confessed to Blix.
At the end, Blix's little eyes were snapping like sparks; Condy's face was flaming, his hands were cold, and he was shifting his weight from foot to foot, like an excited thoroughbred horse. "Heavens and earth, what a yarn!" he exclaimed almost in a whisper. Blix drew a long, tremulous breath and sat back upon the upturned box, looking around her as though she had but that moment been awakened.
"Why, she's PRETTY!" was Blix's first smothered exclamation, as if she had expected a harridan. K. D. B. looked like a servant-girl of the better sort, and was really very neatly dressed. She was small, little even. She had snappy black eyes, a resolute mouth, and a general air of being very quiet, very matter-of-fact and complacent.
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.
Condy turned about in his place with great deliberation, fixed the picture with a judicial eye, and announced decisively: "That? why, that's a BARKENTINE." Condy had no need to wait for Blix's report. The demonstration came far too quickly for that. The red-headed man at his loud declaration merely glanced in the direction of the chromo and returned to his enchellados.
Condy even forgot, or rather disdained on such a morning as that, to piece together and rearrange Captain Jack's yarns into story form. To look at the sea and the green hills, to watch the pink on Blix's cheek and her yellow hair blowing across her eyes and lips, was better than thinking. Life was better than literature.
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