The man he admired was less admirable than
of old. He recognized that, although he was not yet fully aware of the
transformation of Valentine. Before he left England he vaguely suspected
a change. Now the change hit him full in the heart. So acute was it
that, in an age of miracles, he could well have believed Cuckoo Bright's
disjointed statement. Valentine was, to his mind, even in some strange
way to his eye, at this moment no longer Valentine. He was talking with a
man whose features he knew certainly, but whose mind he did not know, had
never known. And his former resolution to watch Valentine closely was
consolidated. It became a passion. The doctor woke in the man. Nor was
the old friend and lover of humanity lulled to sleep.
"How is Julian?" the doctor asked, dropping his eyes.
"Very well, I think. He will be here directly. He's coming to fetch me.
We are dining at the Prince's in Piccadilly in the same party. That
reminds me, I must dress. But do stay, and have some coffee."
"No coffee, thank you."
"But you will stay and see Julian. I dare say he will be here early."
"Yes, I will stay. I should like to meet him."
After a word or two more Valentine vanished to dress, and the doctor
was once more alone.
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