Better still, she would have anticipated that meeting with a letter that would have warned him that his position as a husband was changed.  But it was too late now!  Too late for anything but a bald and brave and cruel half-hour that should, at any cost, sunder them.

Quick upon the thought came another:  what should she and Peter plan now?  For to suppose that their lives were to be guided back into the old hateful channel by this mere mischance was preposterous.  Within a few days their interrupted trip must be resumed, perhaps to-morrow—­perhaps this very night they would manage it successfully.  Alix was unsuspicious, Martin utterly unconcerned, and perhaps it would be even easier to do now, than when Alix must at once communicate with Martin, and perhaps bring him away from his work, to adjust life to the new conditions.

But meanwhile, until she could see Peter alone, there was Martin to deal with, Martin who was leaning forward, vaingloriously reciting to her long speeches he had made to this superior or that.

“Martin,” she said, impetuously interrupting him, “I’ve got to talk to you!  I’ve meant to write it—­so many times, I’ve had it in my mind ever since I left Red Creek!”

“Shoot!” Martin said, with his favourite look of indulgent amusement.

But she knew the little twitch to his lips that was neither indulgent nor amused.

“There are marriages that without any fault on either side are a mistake,” Cherry began, “any contributory fault, I mean—­”

“Talk United States!” Martin growled, smiling, but on guard.

“Well, I think our marriage was one of those!” Cherry said.

“What have you got to kick about?” Martin asked, after a pause.

“I’m not kicking!” Cherry answered, with quick resentment.  “But I wish I had words to make you realize how I feel about it!”

Martin looked gloomily up at her, and shrugged.

“This is a sweet welcome from your wife!” he observed.  But as she regarded him with troubled and earnest eyes, perhaps her half-forgotten beauty made an unexpected appeal to him, for he turned toward her and eyed her with a large tolerance.  “What’s the matter, Cherry?” he asked.  “It doesn’t seem to me that you’ve got much to kick about.  Haven’t I always taken pretty good care of you?  Didn’t I take the house and move the things in; didn’t I leave you a whole month, while I ate at that rotten boarding-house, when your father died; haven’t I let you have—­how long is it?—­seven weeks, by George, with your sister?”

It poured out too readily to be unpremeditated; Cherry recognized the tones of his old arraigning voice.  He had brooded over his grievances.  He felt himself ill-treated.

“Now you come in for this money,” he began.  But she interrupted him hotly: 

“Martin, you know that is not true!”

“Isn’t it true that the instant you can take care of yourself you begin to talk about not being happy, and so on!” he asked, without any particular feeling.  “You bet you do!  Why, I never cared anything about that money, you never heard me speak of it.  I always felt that by the time the lawyers and the heirs and the witnesses got through, there wouldn’t be much left of it, anyway!”