She woke in him a little
of the uneasy fear and uneasy attraction that a creature whom a man feels
to be greater than himself often wakes in him. That evening, while Julian
sat with her, he had been seized with curious conflicting desires to
fall before her or to strike her, to draw her close or to fend her off
from him, all dull, too, and vague as in heaviness of dreaming. Those
feelings, vague in the house, were scarcely clearer in the cold and in
the open spaces of the night, and Julian was conscious of a sense of
irritation, of anger against himself. He felt as if he were an oaf, a
lout. Was it, could it be, Cuckoo who had made him feel so? After all,
what was she? Julian tried to hug and soothe himself in the unworthy
remembrance of Cuckoo's monotonous life and piteous deeds, to reinstate
himself in contented animalism by thoughts of the animalism of this
priestess! He laughed aloud under the stars, but the laugh rang hollow.
He could not reinstate himself. He could only wearily repeat, "What the
devil's come over Cuckoo?" with an iteration of dull, moody petulance.
A hansom suddenly pulled up beside him and a voice called:
"Julian! Julian, where are you coming from?"
It was Valentine. He was muffled in a fur coat, and stretched himself
over the wooden apron to attract his friend's attention.
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