At last Julian grew almost angry
in defence of Valentine.
"Half the women in London would be proud to go with him," he said hotly.
"Not if they knew as much about men as I do," she answered.
"But you know nothing whatever about him. That's just the point."
"Ah, but I feel a lot," she said, with an expressive twist of her thin,
rather pretty face. "He's bad, rank bad. That's what he is."
Julian was suddenly seized with a desire to probe this outrageous
instinct to its source, believing, like many people, that the stream
of instinct must flow from some hidden spring of reason.
"Now, look here," he said, more quietly. "I want you to try to tell me
what it is in him that you dislike so much."
"It's everything, dearie."
"No; but that's absurd. For instance, it can't be his looks."
"It is."
"Why, he's wonderfully handsome."
"I don't care. I hate his face; yes, I do."
Julian impatiently pitied her as one pities a blind man who knocks up
against one in the street. But he thought it best to abandon Valentine's
appearance to its unhappy fate of her dislike, and sailed away on another
tack.
"My friend likes you," he said, as he thought, craftily.
Cuckoo tossed her head without reply.
"He said he would rather go with you on Saturday than with any one in
London.
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