The room seemed spinning round with her, and the two faces
danced and sprang in the mirror, as if a hand shook it up and down, from
side to side.
"If he is here," Valentine said, "it is not in the way you fancy. Your
imagination has played you a trick."
"Didn't you--didn't you see him? Don't you see him now?"
"I see only you and myself."
As if for a joke he bent his head and peered closely at the mirror, like
a man endeavouring to discern some very pale and dim reflection there.
"No, he's--he's not there!" he murmured, "but--"
With a harsh exclamation he dashed his fist against the mirrored face of
the lady of the feathers. The glass cracked and broke from top to bottom.
Cuckoo cried out. Valentine's hand had blood upon it. He did not seem to
know this, and swung round upon her with an almost savage fury.
"Don't--don't, for God's sake," she cried, fearing an attack.
But he made no movement against her. On the contrary, an expression of
relief chased the anger from his lips and eyes.
"Ah!" he said, "that's a lying mirror! It lied to you and to me. I
smashed it. Well, I'll give you another that is more truthful, and more
ornamental too."
"What was it you saw?" she murmured.
"A silly vision, power where there is only weakness; a will, a soul,
where there could not be one!"
"Eh? was it that you struck at?"
"Why do you ask?" he said with sudden suspicion.
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