"Jessie must go to basket," she said, and she dropped the dog into a tiny
basket lined with red flannel, and held up a warning finger.
"Naughty--go bials!" she cried. "Go bials, Jessie."
"What's that?"
"Bials--by-bye. She don't like bein' left. Well, dearie, we've had a nice
time."
Suddenly she put her hands on Julian's shoulders and kissed his mouth.
"I wish there was more like you," she whispered.
He kissed her too, and put his arms around her.
"If I give you something, will you--will you stay at home to-night, just
to-night, with Jessie?" he said.
But she drew away and shook her head.
"I won't take it."
"Yes."
"I won't. No--we're pals--not--not the other thing. You're the only one
I've got--of that kind. I won't spoil it--no, I won't."
Her decision was almost angry. Julian did not persist.
"I'll come again," he said.
She looked at him wistfully.
"Ah--but you won't," she answered.
"I will."
He spoke with energy. She nodded.
"I'd like you to."
Then they went out into the evening and hailed a hansom.
"Put me down at the Piccadilly end of Regent Street," said the lady of
the feathers.
CHAPTER VIII
THE LADY OF THE FEATHERS VISITS VALENTINE
Julian was curiously touched by his interview in the Marylebone Road, and
he did not fail to recount it to Valentine, whose delicate imagination
would, he felt certain, feel the pity and the pain of it.
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