"I ain't ill. Why don't you come to see
me now?" she added. "You don't never come."
Julian glanced over to Valentine, who was standing by the hearth talking
to the doctor, who sat in an armchair.
"I've been busy," he said. "I've had a lot of things to do. Do you miss
me, Cuckoo, when I don't come?"
"Yes," she replied, but without softness. Then she added, lowering her
voice almost to a whisper:
"Don't he want you to come?"
Julian did not reply, but puffed rather moodily at his cigarette,
glancing towards Valentine. He was thinking of the conversation at
the Savoy and of the antagonism between Valentine and Cuckoo. Suddenly
there came into his mind a dull wish to reconcile these two on the last
night of the year, to--in Valentine's own words--bury the hatchet. He
sat meditating over his plan and trying to revolve different and dramatic
methods of accomplishing it. Presently he said:
"Cuckoo, you and Val have got to be friends from to-night."
She started, stirring uneasily on the great cushions that were heaped at
her back.
"We are," she said.
He shook his head.
"Not real friends."
"Oh, we are all right."
"D'you hate him still?"
"He don't like me," she answered, evasively.
"Yet he invites you here," Julian said.
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