of him quivered like a smitten harp-string. It
was not in him or in his temperament to love her calmly, quietly, or at
a distance; he wanted the touch of her hand, the touch of her cool,
smooth cheek, the delicious aroma of her breath in his nostrils her
lips against his, her hair and all its fragrance in his face.

"Condy, what's the matter?" Blix was looking at him with an expression
of no little concern. "What are you frowning so about, and clinching
your fists? And you're pale, too. What's gone wrong?"

He shot a glance at her, and bestirred himself sharply.

"Isn't this a jolly little corner?" he said. "Blix, how long is it
before you go?"

"Six weeks from to-morrow."

"And you're going to be gone four years--four years! Maybe you never
will come back. Can't tell what will happen in four years. Where's
the blooming mouth-organ?"

But the mouth-organ was full of crumbs. Condy could not play on it.
To all his efforts it responded only by gasps, mournfulest
death-rattles, and lamentable wails. Condy hurled it into the sea.

"Well, where's the blooming book, then?" he demanded. "You're sitting
on it, Blix. Here, read something in it. Open it anywhere."

"No; you read to me."

"I will not. Haven't I done enough? Didn't I buy the book and get the
lunch, and make the sandwiches, and pay the car-fare? I think this
expedition will cost me pretty near three dollars before we're through
with the day. No; the least you can do is to read to me. Here, we'll
match for it."

Condy drew a dime from his pocket, and Blix a quarter from her purse.

"You're matching me," she said.

Condy tossed the coin and lost, and Blix said, as he picked up the book:

"For a man that has such unvarying bad luck as you, gambling is just
simple madness. You and I have never played a game of poker yet that
I've not won every cent of money you had."

"Yes; and what are you doing with it all?"

"Spending it," she returned loftily; "gloves and veils and lace
pins--all kinds of things."

But Condy knew the way she spoke that this was not true.

For the next hour or so he read to her from "The Seven Seas," while the
afternoon passed, the wind stirring the chaparral and blackberry bushes
in the hollows of the huge, bare hills, the surf rolling and grumbling
on the beach below, the sea-birds wheeling overhead. Blix listened
intently, but Condy could not have told of what he was reading. Living
was better than reading, li