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.

“To stay?” Peter asked, quickly.

Cherry shrugged.

“As much as he stays anywhere!” she answered, drily.

“H’m!  Does that mean you?” Alix asked.

“I suppose that’s the plan,” Cherry said, lifelessly.

“It’s a rotten country,” Peter offered, thoughtfully.  “At least I should think it would be,” he added, more moderately, “to select for a permanent home.”

“I always say that a place where the natives are black, or yellow, isn’t fit for white people, or the natives would be white!” Alix explained, brightly.

“All mining towns are horrible!” Cherry said with gloomy fervor.  “They’re raw, crude, coarse places, and the people in them are just as bad!”

Peter had a moment of pity for her, so young, so helpless, so tied.

“Perhaps he won’t want you until he is sure of staying!” he offered.

“Oh, Mart always thinks the last thing is the permanent thing!” his wife answered, wearily.  “He says he’ll want me to join him about the middle of August.”

“Oh, help!” Alix said, disgustedly.

Cherry was silent a few minutes, and Peter smoked with his eyes on the fire.  Alix glanced from one to the other, sighed, and glanced down at her magazine.