Now she sat through the whole of the five
acts, and the only thing she missed was the fall of the curtain. That
remained up. But why? There was--there could be--nothing more to come,
unless a dreary recapitulation of such dreary events as had already been
displayed. Such a cup could hold no wine that was not foul, thick, and
poisonous. And she had known herself so little as to imagine that she
could really love, and that her love might fulfil itself in protection
instead of sensual gratification. Yes, vaguely she had believed that.
She had even believed that she could put on armour and do battle
against--and at this point in her desperate meditation the lady of the
feathers shifted her eyes from her own face mirrored to the face beside
it. As she did so, a sudden cry escaped from her lips. For a moment she
thought she saw the face of the dead Marr, and the hallucination was so
vivid that when it was gone and the mirror once more revealed the face
of Valentine, Cuckoo had no thought but that she had really seen Marr.
She turned sharply round and cast a glance behind her. Then:
"Did you see him?" she whispered to Valentine.
"Whom?"
"Him--Marr! He's not dead; he's here; he's here, I tell you. I see him in
the glass!"
She shivered.
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