"And if she were what you say, she would have no influence over me, and
I should hate her. But to me she is just what a good girl might be. Why,
even the doctor--"
"Was he there to-night?" Valentine cried, with a sudden inspiration.
"Of course he was. And you know what a particular little chap he is."
"Why was he there?"
"Just to see Cuckoo, you know, in a friendly way."
Valentine realized then that the battle had begun. He divined the meaning
of the doctor's visit. He guessed what it had done for the lady of the
feathers. And he sat silent while Julian went on drinking more
champagne.
"I believe he likes Cuckoo, Val. I am sure he does. And he behaved quite
as if--quite as if he--you know--respected her. And it's all nonsense her
hating you, and having a battle, and all that kind of thing, with you.
She's only fanciful. She's not--"
"Would you give her up if I asked you to? Mind, Julian, I don't say I
ever shall ask you. But if I do?"
"Don't ask me to, don't ask me. Poor Cuckoo, poor girl, she's got no
friends, money, or--or anything. Poor Cuckoo. Poor Cuck--Cuck--"
He fell back in his chair, nodding his head, and reiterating his
commiseration for the lady of the feathers in a faint and recurring
hiccough.
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