"
"At the 'Empire'?"
"If fate chooses."
"I think you ought to know Cuckoo--"
"Is that her name?"
"Yes, Cuckoo Bright, before our meditated expedition."
Valentine seemed struck by this idea.
"So that we may all be at our ease. A capital notion. Julian, sit down,
write a note asking her to come to tea on Thursday, in the flat. I will
show her my pictures, and you shall talk to her of Huxley and of Herbert
Spencer."
Julian regarded Valentine rather doubtfully.
"Are you malicious?" he said, with a hesitating note in his voice.
"Malicious--no!"
"You won't chaff her?"
"Chaff a lady who wears more feathers than ever 'growed on one ostrich,'
and who was the _intime_ of the mysterious Marr? Julian, Julian!"
Then, seeing that Julian still looked rather uncomfortable, Valentine
added, dropping his mock heroic manner:
"Don't be afraid. We will give the lady one good hour."
"Ah!" Julian cried, struck by the expression, "that's what the doctor
wished to give to every poor wretch in London."
"We don't ask the doctor to our tea," Valentine replied, with a sudden
coldness.
The invitation was conveyed to the lady of the feathers, and in due
course an answer was received, a mosaic of misspelling and obvious
gratification.
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