When they were calm again, they returned to their fishing. The
morning passed, and it was noon before they were aware of it. By
half-past twelve Blix had caught three trout, though the first was
by far the heaviest. Condy had not had so much as a bite. At one
o'clock they rowed ashore and had lunch under a huge live-oak in a
little amphitheatre of manzanita.

Never had a lunch tasted so delicious. What if the wine was warm
and the stuffed olives oily? What if the pepper for the hard-
boiled eggs had sifted all over the "devilish" ham sandwiches?
What if the eggs themselves had not been sufficiently cooked, and
the corkscrew forgotten? They COULD not be anything else but
inordinately happy, sublimely gay. Nothing short of actual
tragedy could have marred the joy of that day.

But after they were done eating, and Blix had put away the forks
and spoons, and while Condy was stretched upon his back smoking a
cigar, she said to him:

"Now, Condy, what do you say to a little game of cards with me?"

The cigar dropped from Condy's lips, and he sat suddenly upright,
brushing the fallen leaves from his hair. Blix had taken a deck
of cards from the lunch-basket, and four rolls of chips wrapped in
tissue paper. He stared at her in speechless amazement.

"What do you say?" she repeated, looking at him and smiling.

"Why, Blix!" he exclaimed in amazement, "what do you mean?"