Kow had put a tureen of soup on the table, and Alix had returned with damp, clean hands and trimly brushed hair, for supper, when Peter came up through the garden.  Cherry had rambled off in the direction of the barn a few moments before, but Martin had followed her and brought her back, remarking that she had had no idea of the time, and was idly watching Antone milking.  She slipped into her place after they were all eating, and hardly raised her eyes throughout the meal.  If Alix addressed her she fluttered the white lids as if it were an absolute agony to look up; to Peter she did not speak at all.  But to Martin she sent an occasional answer, and when the conversation lagged, as it was apt to do in this company, she nervously filled it with random remarks infinitely less reassuring than silence.

“How long do we stay here?” Martin cautiously asked his wife, when after dinner, Peter could be heard in the kitchen, interrogating Kow, and when the drip and splash of Alix’s hose was sounding steadily from the other end of the garden.

“Stay here?” she echoed, at a loss.

“Yes,” he answered, decidedly.  “I can stand a little of it, but I don’t think much of this sort of life!  I thought maybe we could all go into town for dinner and the theatre to-morrow or Saturday.  But on Monday we’ll have to beat it.”

“Monday!” Cherry’s heart bounded.

“My idea was, you to come up with me,” Martin continued, “we’ll see the folks in Portland—­”

“Martin, isn’t it a mistake to go on pretending—­” she began bitterly.  But Peter’s voice, in the drawing room, interrupted her.  “I’ll let you know—­we’ll talk about it!” she had time to say, hurriedly, before he came out to them.  He flung himself into a chair.  Martin at once opened a general conversation, in which Alix, still diligently watering, was presently near enough to take part.

CHAPTER XIX

The evening dragged.  Alix had suggested bridge, but Martin did not play bridge.  So she presently scattered anagrams over the table, reminding Peter of some of their battles with word-making in the long winter nights, and they had a half-hearted game, in which Martin showed no interest at all, and Peter deliberately missed chances to score.

Alix glanced furtively at her wrist-watch; it was twenty minutes of ten.  As Martin flung himself into a chair beside the fire, and lighted one of his strong cigars, she went to the piano, and began to ramble through various songs, hoping that somebody would start to sing, or suggest a favourite, or in some way help to lighten the dreadful heaviness of the atmosphere.

Cherry and Peter, left at the table, did not speak to each other; Peter leaned back in his chair, with a cigarette; Cherry dreamily pushed to and fro the little wooden block letters.

But presently her heart gave a great plunge, and although she did not alter her different attitude, or raise her eyes, her white hand moved with directed impulse, and Peter’s casual glance fell upon the word “Alone.”