And Cuckoo could never
be a goddess, either to him or to any one else. But, though he would
scarcely acknowledge it even to himself, he did not care for Cuckoo to
know fully the changing way of his life. Perhaps it was the curiously
strong line she had from the first taken with regard to his actions that
made him careful with her. Perhaps it was the incident of the vision of
the flame--but no; remembrance of that had been well-nigh lulled to sleep
by the lullabies of Valentine, by his disregard of it, his certainty that
it was an hallucination, a mirage. Whatever the cause might be, Julian
felt somewhat like a naughty boy in the angry presence of Cuckoo. As he
looked at her the greenish twilight painted a chill and menacing gleam in
her eyes, and made her twisting lips venomous and acrid to his glance.
Her rouge vanished in the twilight, or seemed only as a dull, darkish
cloud upon her thin and worn cheeks. She sat at the table almost like a
scarecrow, giving the tables of some strange law to a trembling and an
unwilling votary.
"I know!" she reiterated.
Julian said nothing. He did not choose to deny what was in fact the
truth, that his stay in Paris had not been free from fault, and yet he
did not feel inclined to do what most men in his situation must by all
means have done, challenge Cuckoo's right to sit in judgment, or even for
a moment to criticise any action of his.
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