Cuckoo scrubbed and scrubbed, then applied a
towel, until her skin protested in patches. Finally, and with a disturbed
heart, she approached the sitting-room. Her voice came in to Julian while
she remained hidden:
"I say--"
"Yes."
"I know you will laugh."
"Honour, Cuckoo, honour."
"Oh, all right."
And she came in to him, hanging her head down, rather like a child
among strangers, ashamed, poor thing, of looking respectable. Julian was
astonished at the change the water had wrought. Cuckoo looked another
woman, or rather girl, oddly young, thin, and haggard certainly, and the
reverse of dashing, but pretty, even fascinating, in her shyness. As he
looked at her and saw the real red of nature run over her cheeks in waves
of faint rose color, Julian understood fully all that the girl gives up
when she gives up herself, and the wish--smiled at by Valentine--came to
him again, the wish to reclaim her.
"Ah!" he said. "Now you are yourself."
He took her hand, and drew her in front of the mirror, but she refused to
lift up her eyes and look at her reflection.
"I'm a scarecrow," she murmured, twisting the front of her gown in her
fingers. Her lips began to twitch ominously. Julian felt uncomfortable.
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