He was looking across at Julian, who held idly between his lax fingers
a letter written with violet ink upon pink paper, which had a little bird
stamped in the left-hand corner.
"When did you get it?" he said.
"Two or three days ago, I think. I can't remember. I can't remember
anything now," Julian answered heavily.
"And you have had two since?"
"Yes. And to-day she called."
"You were out?"
"Yes."
"She shows herself very exigent all of a sudden. She is afraid of losing
you. I told you long ago she cherished absurd ambitions with regard to
you. Do you intend to answer her notes?"
"Oh yes," Julian said. "Cuckoo has always been very fond of me; very
fond."
He glanced at the absurdly vulgar little bird in the corner of the
letter. "And that's something," he added slowly.
"You are weighed down with gratitude? No wonder. Are you grateful to
others who have always cared for you in a different way--unselfishly,
that is?"
"I don't seem to feel very much about anybody now," Julian said. "I do
such a lot. The more you do, the less you feel. Damnable life! All
cruelty. I can't feel satisfied. But there must be something; something
I haven't tried. I must find it," he said, almost fiercely, and, stirring
in a sudden energy, "I must find it--or--curse you, Val, why don't you
find it for me?"
Valentine laughed.
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