Before any one spoke it was answered by Wade,
who carried a tray on which stood various bottles and glasses.
"We must counteract the exciting effects of our _caf? noir_," Valentine
said, addressing his guests in a group. "Otherwise we shall be strung
up to a pitch of tension that will make us think the requiem of church
bells, which we shall hear in a few minutes, the voices of spirits or
of spectres. Julian, here is your absinthe. What will you drink, Miss
Bright? Brandy, lemonade, whiskey?"
"Lemonade, please," Cuckoo said, almost in a whisper.
The tears were crowding in her eyes. She dared not look Julian in the
face. Never before had her past risen up before her painted in such grim
and undying colours. The reprise of Valentine had been as the reprise of
a Maxim gun to a volley fired by a child from an air-tube. So Cuckoo
felt. But how greatly was she deceived! Perhaps physical conditions
played a subtle part in the terrible desolation that seized her now,
after her outburst of daring and of excitement. The warmth and smallness
of the room, the penetrating scent that filled it, even the movements
of her companions, the sound of their voices, suddenly became almost
insupportable to Cuckoo. She was the victim of a reaction that was so
swift and so intense as to be unnatural.
Pages:
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657