Why, why had she allowed Julian to over-persuade her? She was looking
horrible, a scarecrow, a ghost of a woman. She was certain of it. For
a moment she felt almost angry with Julian for placing her in such a
bitter position. But he was glowing with a consciousness of successful
diplomacy, and was delighted with her neat black aspect, and with her
smart, though small, hat. He was indeed surprised to find how really
pretty she still was when she allowed her true face to be seen, and was
only wishing that she had made a little less of her hair, which was more
vigorously arranged even than usual. He glanced to see Valentine's
surprise.
"You are so altered," the latter continued. "I scarcely recognized you."
Cuckoo's lips tightened.
"Altered or not, it's me, though," she said.
Valentine did not reply to this. He only made her come to the front of
the box, and placed a chair for her. She sat down feeling like a dog just
whipped. The young men were on each side of her, and the band played an
overture. Cuckoo peered out over the bar of the box, shifting ever so
little away from the side on which Valentine sat. In his presence all her
original and extreme discomfort returned, with an added enmity caused by
her secret certainty that he thought her looking her worst.
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