Did he not know Travis through and through by now--her opinions, her ideas, her convictions?
Was there any more freshness in her for him?
Was their little flirtation of the last eighteen months, charming as it had been, about to end?
Had they played out the play, had they come to the end of each other's resources?
He had never considered the possibility of this before, but all at once as he looked at Travis--looked fairly into her little brown-black eyes--it was borne in upon him that she was thinking precisely the same thing.
Condy Rivers had met Travis at a dance a year and a half before this, and, because she was so very pretty, so unaffected, and so good-natured, had found means to see her three or four times a week ever since.

They two "went out" not a little in San Francisco society, and had been in a measure identified with what was known as the Younger Set; though Travis was too young to come out, and Rivers too old to feel very much at home with girls of twenty and boys of eighteen.
They had known each other in the conventional way (as conventionality goes in San Francisco); during the season Rivers took her to the theatres Monday nights, and called regularly Wednesdays and Sundays.
Then they met at dances, and managed to be invited to the same houses for teas and dinners.

They had flirted rather desperately, and at times Condy even told himself that he loved this girl so much younger than he--this girl with the smiling eyes and robust figure and yellow hair, who was so frank, so straightforward, and so wonderfully pretty.
But evidently they had come to the last move in the game, and as Condy reflected that after all he had never known the real Travis, that the girl whom he told himself he knew through and through was only the Travis of dinner parties and afternoon functions, he was suddenly surprised to experience a sudden qualm of deep and genuine regret.

He had never been NEAR to her, after all.

They were as far apart as when they had first met.