So Cuckoo had thrown her feelings down before Julian.
She had dashed her hatred of Valentine in his face; she had cried her
fears of his downfall to that which she consorted with eternally and
loathed--when she had still the energy to loathe it, which was not
always--in his ears with the ardent shrillness of a boatswain's whistle.
She had, in fact, done all that her instinct prompted her to do, and the
result was the exit of Julian from her life. This set her, always in her
sharp and yet childish way, sometimes oddly clear sighted, often muddled
and distressed, to turn upon instinct with a contempt not known before,
to discard it with the fury still of a child. And instinct thus forsaken
by an essentially instinctive creature opened the gates of distress and
of confusion.
By day Cuckoo sat in her stuffy little parlour brooding wearily. She
waited in day after day, always hoping that Julian would return, full of
resolutions, prompted by fear, to be gentle, even lively, to him when he
did come, full of excited intention which could not be fulfilled; for he
did not come. And by night, while she tramped the streets, still Cuckoo's
anxious mind revolved the question of her behaviour in the future. For
she would not, passionately would not, allow herself to contemplate the
possibility that Julian's anger against her would keep him forever
beyond reach either of her fury or of her tenderness.
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