illed their mouths
and breasts with it. Their life was sweet to them; every hour was one
glad effervescence. The fact that the ocean was blue was a matter for
rejoicing. It was good to be alive on that royal morning. Just to be
young was an exhilaration; and everything was young with them--the day
was young, the country was young, and the civilization to which they
belonged, teeming there upon the green, Western fringe of the
continent, was young and heady and tumultuous with the boisterous, red
blood of a new race.

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. To live was better than to
read; one live human being was better than ten thousand Shakespeares;
an act was better than a thought. Why, just to love Blix, to be with
her, to see the sweet, clean flush of her cheek, to know that she was
there at his side, and to have the touch of her elbow as they walked,
was better than the best story, the greatest novel he could ever hope
to write. Life was better than literature, and love was the best thing
in life. To love Blix and to be near her--what else was worth while?
Could he ever think of finding anything in life sweeter and finer than
this dear young girl of nineteen?

Suddenly Condy came to himself with an abrupt start. What was this he
was thinking--what was this he was telling himself? Love Blix! He loved
Blix! Why, of COURSE he loved her--loved her so, that with the thought
of it there came a great, sudden clutch at the heart and a strange
sense of tenderness, so vague and yet so great that it eluded speech
and all expression. Love her! Of course he loved her! He had, all
unknowing, loved her even before this wonderful morning: had loved her
that day at the lake, and that never-to-be-forgotten, delicious
afternoon in the Chinese restaurant; all those long, quiet evenings
spent in the window of the little dining-room, looking down upon the
darkening city, he had loved her. Why, all his days for the last few
months had been full of the love of her.

How else had he been so happy? how else did it come about that little
by little he was withdrawing from the society and influence of his
artificial world, as represented by such men