One evening, when in the sitting room there was no other light
than that of the fire that a damp July evening made pleasant,
about a week after her arrival, Cherry spoke for the first time of
Martin. She had had a long letter from him that day, ten pages
written in a flowing hand on ten pages of the lined paper of a
cheap hotel, with a little cut of the building standing boldly
against a mackerel sky at the top of each page. He was well, he
had some of his dinners at the hotel, but lived at home; he had
been playing a little poker and was luckier than ever. He was
looking into a proposition in Durango, Mexico, and would let her
know how it panned out. The letter ended with the phrases: "Have a
good time, Babe, and write me. Send me a line when you can. I have
been running some with Joe King, but I am not strong for that
crowd." It was signed: "Aff'tly, Mart."

Peter had been playing the piano lazily when the letter was tossed
to Cherry by Alix, who usually drove into the village every
morning after breakfast for marketing and the mail. He had seen
Cherry glance through it, seen the little distasteful movement of
the muscles about her nose, and seen her put it carelessly under a
candlestick on the mantel for later consideration. At luncheon she
had referred to it, and now it evidently had caused her to be
thoughtful and a little troubled. An open book was in her lap; she
and Alix had gone through the farce of saying that they would read
without speaking until Peter had finished some business
telephoning; now he had joined them, but still she did not read
and seemed disinclined for talk.

"Mart may go to Mexico!" she said, presently, with a sigh.