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.

And the love of her had made a man of him--he could not forget that;
had given to him just the strength that made it possible for him to
keep that resolute, grim silence now. In those two months he had grown
five years; he was more masculine, more virile. The very set of his
mouth was different; between the eye-brows the cleft had deepened; his
voice itself vibrated to a heavier note. No, no; so long as he should
live, he, man grown as he was, could never forget this girl of nineteen
who had come into his life so quietly, so unexpectedly, who had
influenced it so irresistibly and so unmistakably for its betterment,
and who had passed out of it with the passing of the year.

For a few moments Condy had been absent-mindedly snapping the lid of
his cigarette case, while he thought; now he selected a cigarette,
returned the case to his pocket, and fumbled for a match. But the
little gun-metal case he carried was empty. Blix rose and groped for a
moment upon the mantel-shelf, then returned and handed him a match, and
stood over him while he scraped it under the arm of the chair wherein
he sat. Even when his cigarette was lighted she still stood there,
looking at him, the fingers of her hands clasped in front of her, her
hair, one side of her cheek, her chin, and sweet, round neck outlined
by the fa