"I have been to your rooms," he continued. "Don't you remember we had
arranged to dine together?"
Julian looked at him without animation.
"I had forgotten it," he answered.
"Your memory is becoming very treacherous," Valentine said. "Where are
you off to? Get in. I will drive you."
"I hadn't any plan," Julian said, getting into the cab.
"Drive to the Savoy," Valentine called to the cabman. "I want some
supper," he added.
"I can't come in. I'm not dressed."
"We will have a private room, then. Have you dined?"
"I? No."
Valentine looked at him narrowly.
"Have you been in the Marylebone Road again?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I don't know."
The answer was the bald truth. In making it Julian experienced a slight
feeling of relief. He was putting into words the vagueness that perplexed
him. He wondered why he did go to see Cuckoo.
"But you must know. You must have a reason," said Valentine.
"If I have I don't know what it is. I wish you would tell me, old
fellow."
"I can't supply you with reasons for all your actions."
"And I can't supply myself with reasons for any of them," Julian said
slowly. The words were leading him to a dawning wonder at his own way of
life, a dawning desire to know if there were really any reasons for the
things he did.
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