There was silence, the silence of inanition, about him.  He came to himself with a start.  He was up on the hills, in the cemetery—­ this was Alix’s grave, newly covered with wilting masses of flowers, and he was keeping everybody waiting.  He murmured an apology; the waiting men were all kindness and sympathy.

He got back into the motor-car; Kow got in; the man who drove them quickly toward the valley talked easily and steadily to Peter, attempting to interest him in the affairs of some water company in San Francisco.  When they got to the valley a city train was arriving, and Peter saw people looking at him furtively and sorrowfully.  He remembered the many, many times Alix had waited for him at the trains; he glanced toward the big madrone under which she always parked her car.  She was usually deep in a book as he crossed from the train, but she would fling it into the back seat, and make room for him beside her.  The dog would bound into the tonneau, Alix would hand her husband his mail, the car would start with a great plunge toward the mountain—­toward the cool garden high up on the ridge—­

“She never had an accident, Fred,” he said, simply.

“Alix?” The other man nodded gravely, but there was a worried look in his eyes.  He did not like Peter’s quiet tone.  “It may be that her steering-gear broke,” he said.  “I don’t believe it was her fault.  Never will!  No, it was just one of those things—­” He emptied his lungs with a great breath of nervousness and sympathy.  “Now, we want you to-night—­” he began, pleadingly.

“No—­no—­no!” Peter said, quickly.  “I had better go to her sister.  Poor Lloyd is dying, and she is on the verge of a collapse.  The nurse said this morning that they could not get her to undress or to leave the room.  Poor girl—­poor Cherry!  I had better go there, Fred. She will need me!”

“No chance for him?” the driving man asked, turning his car.

“No—­it’s only a matter of time!”

“She came in for the old doctor’s money, didn’t she?”

“Yes—­all of it, now.  And my wife had some property—­some I had given her; that will go to the sister now.  She will be well fixed,” Peter said, in a dull tone.  “That would have pleased Alix.”

“She’s a beautiful woman, and young still,” said the other man, after awhile.  Peter did not hear him.

Cherry looked small and pathetic in her fresh black, and her face was marked by secret incessant weeping.  But the nurses and doctors could not say enough for her self-control; she was always composed, always quietly helpful and calm when they saw her, and she was always busy.  From early morning, when she slipped into the sick-room, to stand looking at the unconscious Martin with a troubled, intent expression that the nurses came to know well, until night, she moved untiringly about the quiet, shaded house.  She supervised the Chinese boy, saw that the nurses had their hours for rest and exercise, telephoned, dusted, and arranged the rooms, saw callers sweetly and patiently, filled vases with flowers.