to go now, just when the whole thing can be closed up so quickly,
and Martin, too--" her voice trailed away vaguely. She fell
silent, her eyes absent and full of pain. Suddenly they widened,
as if some pang had suddenly shaken her into consciousness again.
"Well, I'll go back," she began again, bravely, "I'll leave you
power--what do they call it?--power to act for me. I can do that,
can't I? I'll wire Martin to-morrow--this is Sunday, and I'll go
on Wednesday!" And as she looked off across the green spaces of
fog-wreathed hills and valleys, they seemed to turn suddenly
glaring and ugly to her, and she felt a great weariness and
heartsickness with life.

Peter sprang over the porch rail, and vanished, walking with swift
energy up the trail that led toward the mountain. Cherry knew that
he would walk himself tired; she longed to walk, too, to plunge on
and on through the foggy depths of the hills, striding, stumbling,
getting breathless and weary in body, while somehow--somehow!--
this confusion and exhaustion cleared away from mind and soul. And
yet beyond the horror and shame and regret she felt something was
thrilling, exulting, and singing for joy.

For the rest of that day she lived in a sort of daze of emotion,
sometimes she seemed to be living two lives, side by side. In the
one was her old happy relationship with Alix, and even with Peter,
the old joking and talking, and gathering for meals, the old hours
in the garden or beside the fire, and in the other was the
confused and troubled and ecstatic consciousness of the new
relationship between Peter and herself, the knowledge that he did
not merely admire her, did not merely feel for her an unusual
affection, but that he was consumed by a burning adoration of her