ed with white cord, and Condy unrolled his manuscript and read
through what he had written. She approved, and, as he had foreseen,
"caught on" to every one of his points. He was almost ready to burst
into cheers when she said:

"Any one reading that would almost believe you had been a diver
yourself, or at least had lived with divers. Those little details
count, don't they? Condy, I've an idea. See what you think of it.
Instead of having the story end with his leaving her down there and
going away, do it this way. Let him leave her there, and then go back
after a long time when he gets to be an old man. Fix it up some way to
make it natural. Have him go down to see her and never come up again,
see? And leave the reader in doubt as to whether it was an accident or
whether he did it on purpose."

Condy choked back a whoop and smote his knee. "Blix, you're the eighth
wonder! Magnificent--glorious! Say!"--he fixed her with a glance of
curiosity--"you ought to take to story-writing yourself."

"No, no," she retorted significantly. "I'll just stay with my singing
and be content with that. But remember that story don't go to 'The
Times' supplement. At least not until you have tried it East--with the
Centennial Company, at any rate."

"Well, I guess NOT!" snorted Condy. "Why, this is going to be one of
the best yarns I ever wrote."

A little later on he inquired with sudden concern: "Have you got
anything to eat in the house?"

"I never saw such a man!" declared Blix; "you are always hungry."

"I love to eat," he protested.

"Well, we'll make some creamed oysters; how would that do?" suggested
Blix.

Condy rolled his eyes. "Oh, speak to me of creamed oysters!" Then,
with abrupt solemnity: "Blix, I never in my life had as many oysters as
I could eat."

She made the creamed oysters in the kitchen over the gas-stove, and
they ate them there--Condy sitting on the washboard of the sink, his
plate in his lap.

Condy had a way of catching up in his hands whatever happened to be
nearest him, and, while still continuing to talk, examining it with
apparent deep interest. Just now it happened to be the morning's paper
that Victorine had left on the table. For five minutes Condy had been
picking it up and laying it down, frowning abstractedly at it during
the pauses in the conversation. Suddenly he became aware of what it
was, and instantly read aloud the first item that caught his glance:

"'Personal.--Youn