"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."