Her face was scarlet, and for a moment she stopped speaking.

“Just tell me an alternative!” she said, after awhile.  “It can’t be that there is no other life for me than going back.  Peter, I’m only twenty-four!”

“I know you are,” he said, with a brief nod.

“Why, everyone has some alternative,” Cherry pleaded.  “It can’t be that marriage is the only—­the only irrevocable thing!  If you had a partner that you couldn’t go on with, you could come to some agreement!  You could make a sacrifice, but somehow you could end the association!  Peter,” she said, earnestly, “when I think of marketing again—­six chops and soup-meat and butter and baking powder—­I feel sick!  When I think of unpacking the things I’ve washed and dusted for five years—­the glass berry bowl that somebody gave us, and the eleven silver tea-spoons—­I can’t bear it!”

“You don’t love him!” Peter said.

“I don’t hate him,” she answered quickly.  “Indeed I don’t.  And it isn’t just the place and the life, Peter!  I could be happy in two rooms—­somewhere—­anywhere—­But not—­with him.  Oh, Peter, if I hadn’t done it—­if I hadn’t done it!” And Cherry knotted her fingers together, and her voice thickened and stopped.

Her beauty, as she pushed her plate aside and leaned toward him, was so startling that Peter, a lighted match half-raised to a fresh cigarette, put the match down aimlessly, and looked thoughtfully at the cigarette, and laid that down, too, without the faintest consciousness of what he was doing.  The day was warm, and there was a little dampness on her white forehead, where the gold hair clung to the brim of the drooping hat.  Her marvellous blue eyes were ringed with soft violet shadows, as if a sooty finger had set them under the dark brown arch of the brows.  The soft curve of her chin, the babyish shortness of her upper lip, and the crimson sweetness of the little earnest mouth had never seemed more lovely than they were to-day.  She was youth incarnate, palpitating, flushed, unspoiled.

For a moment she looked down at the table, and the colour flooded her face, then she looked him straight in the eyes and smiled.  “Well!  Perhaps it will all work out right, Peter,” she said, with the childish, questioning look that so wrung his heart.  She immediately gathered her possessions together to go, but when they stepped into sunshiny Geary Street it was three o’clock, and Peter suggested that they walk down to the boat.

To them both the hour was memorable, and the street and park and the tops of tall buildings, flooded with the sunlight of a summer afternoon, were Paradise.  Cherry only knew that she felt strangely thrilled and yet at peace; Peter’s heart was bursting with love of the world, love of this romantic city, with its flower market blazing in the sun, and with the ferry clock tower standing high above the vista of Market Street.  He seemed floating rather than walking, and when, at crossings, he could help Cherry for a few steps, felicity swelled in his soul almost like pain.