He was so much in the thrall of thought that he had
become quite unconscious of the awkwardness of the brooding silence, when
he heard Valentine's voice say:
"Are you fond of art, Miss Bright?"
The question sounded as if addressed to some society woman at home in
Melbury Road. Addressed to Cuckoo it was entirely absurd, and Julian
glanced at Valentine to deprecate the gay sarcasm which he suspected.
But Valentine's face disarmed him, it was so gravely and serenely polite.
"Eh?" said Cuckoo.
"Are you fond of art? or do you prefer literature?"
"I don't know," she said nervously.
"Or perhaps music?"
"I like singing," she said. "And the organs."
"Do sing us something, Val," Julian said, to create a diversion.
But Valentine shook his head.
"Not to-day. I have got a cold in my throat."
"Well, then, play something."
But Valentine did not seem to hear the last request. He had turned again
to Cuckoo, who visibly shied away from him, and clattered the teacup and
saucer, which she held like one alarmed.
"Music is a great art," he said persuasively. "And appeals essentially to
one's emotions. I am certain now that you are emotional."
"I don't know, I'm sure," she said, with an effort at self-confidence.
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