There was something about her, a
frankness perhaps, which made it impossible to put her out of court by
any allusion to her own life. And indeed that must have been cowardice
and an impossibility. Besides, she put herself and her own deeds calmly
away as unworthy and impossible of discussion, as things sunk down
beneath the wave of notice or comment, remote from criticism or
condemnation, because the life of their hopelessness had been so long
and sunless.
Cuckoo, with her eyes on Julian, was silent, too, now. She understood
that what her suspicion had affirmed, without actually knowing, was true,
and her stormy heart was swept by a whirlwind of jealousy, and of
womanish pity for the man she was jealous of. In that moment she felt
a sickness of life more sharp than she had ever felt before, and a dull
longing to be a different woman, a woman of Julian's class, and clever,
that she might be able to do something to keep him from sinking to the
level of the men she hated.
How could she, in her nakedness of permanent degradation, give a helping
hand to anybody? That was a clear rendering of the vague thought, vague
as this twilight in which they sat, that ran through her mind. Suddenly
she turned to the tray and poured herself out a cup of tea.
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