"It does seem a pity," he went on, "that when you WANT to do the right, straight thing, and be clean and fine, that you can't just BE it, and have it over with. It's the keeping it up that's the grind.""But it's the keeping it up, Condy, that makes you WORTH BEINGGOOD when you finally get to be good; don't you think? It's the keeping it up that makes you strong; and then when you get to be good you can make your goodness count. What's a good man if he's weak?--if his goodness is better than he is himself? It's the good man who is strong--as strong as his goodness, and who can make his goodness count--who is the right kind of man. That's what Ithink."
There's something in that, there's something in that." Then, after a pause: "I played Monday night, after all, Blix, after promising I wouldn't."For a time she did not answer, and when she spoke, she spoke quietly: "Well--I'm glad you told me"; and after a little she added, "Can't you stop, Condy?""Why, yes--yes, of course--I--oh, Blix, sometimes I don't know!
You can't understand! How could a girl understand the power of it?
Other things, I don't say; but when it comes to gambling, there seems to be another me that does precisely as he chooses, whether I will or not. But I'm going to do my best. I haven't played since, although there was plenty of chance. You see, this card business is only a part of this club life, this city life--like drinking and--other vices of men. If I didn't have to lead the life, or if I didn't go with that crowd--Sargeant and the rest of those men--it would be different; easier, maybe.""But a man ought to be strong enough to be himself and master of himself anywhere. Condy, IS there anything in the world better or finer than a strong man?""Not unless it is a good woman, Blix."
"I suppose I look at it from a woman's point of view; but for me a STRONG man--strong in everything--is the grandest thing in the world. Women love strong men, Condy. They can forgive a strong man almost anything."Condy did not immediately answer, and in the interval an idea occurred to Blix that at once hardened into a determination. But she said nothing at the moment. The spell of the sunset was gone and they had evidently reached the end of that subject of their talk. Blix rose to light the gas. Will you promise me one thing, Condy?" she said. "Don't if you don't want to. But will you promise me that you will tell me whenever you do play?""That I'll promise you!" exclaimed Condy; "and I'll keep that, too.""And now, let's hear the story--or what you've done of it."They drew up to the dining-room table with its cover of blue denim edged 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.--Young woman, thirty-one, good housekeeper, desires acquaintance respectable middle-aged gentleman. Object, matrimony. Address K. D. B., this office.'--Hum!" he commented, "nothing equivocal about K. D. B.; has the heroism to call herself young at thirty-one. I'll bet she IS a good housekeeper. Right to the point. If K. D. B. don't see what she wants, she asks for it.""I wonder," mused Blix, "what kind of people they are who put personals in the papers. K. D. B., for instance; who is she, and what is she like?""They're not tough," Condy assured her. "I see 'em often down at 'The Times' office. They are usually a plain, matter-of-fact sort, quite conscientious, you know; generally middle-aged--or thirty-one; outgrown their youthful follies and illusions, and want to settle down.""Read some more," urged Blix. Condy went on.
"'Bachelor, good habits, twenty-five, affectionate disposition, accomplishments, money, desires acquaintance pretty, refined girl.
Object, matrimony. McB., this office.'"
