Cuckoo's head turned
slowly to one side. Her haggard eyes swept the view of the path. Julian
was walking up it.
She met him very quietly, almost seriously, and he shook hands with
her as if they had been together quite recently and parted the best of
friends. Only, as he held her hand, she noticed that he cast a hasty, and
as she fancied a fearful, glance into her eyes. Then he seemed reassured
and they sat down to tea. Cuckoo supposed that he had for the moment
dreaded what she called another row, and was satisfied by her expression
of good temper. They drank their tea, and after a short interval of
constraint began chattering together very much as usual. At first Cuckoo
had hardly dared to look much at Julian, lest he should see the joy she
felt at his coming, but when she was pouring out his second cup she let
her eyes rest fully on his face, and only then did she realize that a
shadow lay upon it, a shadow from which it had been free before.
With a trembling hand she filled the cup and stared upon the shadow.
She knew its brethren so well. In dead days she herself had helped to
manufacture such shadows upon the faces of men. She had seen them come,
thin, faint, delicate, impalpable as a veil of mist before morning.
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