Cuckoo became all curves, almost like Jessie in
moments of supreme emotion.
"Me and you?" she exclaimed. "Oh yes!"
The doctor rang the bell.
"Take this lady to the dining-room and give her some lunch," he said to
Lawler. "And please order the victoria round at once."
"Yes, sir."
"While you lunch," he said to Cuckoo, "I'll just get through two letters
that must be written, and then we'll start."
Cuckoo followed Lawler with a sense of airy wonder and delight.
A quarter of an hour later she was seated with the doctor in the
victoria, the veil tightly stretched across her face, her poor mode of
living up to his trust in her, and deserving the honour now conferred
upon her. The coachman let his horses go, and Harley Street was left
behind. Such a bright day it was. Even the cold seemed a gay and festive
thing, spinning the circulation like a gold coin till it glittered,
decorating the poorest cheeks with the brightest rose as if in honour
of a festival. To Cuckoo London, as seen from a private carriage, was
a wonder and a dream of novelty, a city of kings instead of a city of
beggars, a city of crystal morning instead of a city of dreadful night.
She gazed at it out of a new heart as these horses--that never came
down--trotted briskly forward.
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