The teapot smoked.
"Come along, my dearie," began the old creature.
But Julian thrust her out of the room. He brought Cuckoo tea and food,
fed her, put the cup to her lips. At first she had scarcely the strength
to swallow, but presently she began to revive, and then ate and drank so
ravenously that Julian, even in his vague condition, was appalled.
"Good God, it's true!" he said. "Cuckoo starving!"
He sat by her turning this piercing matter over in his mind. Its
strangeness helped to sober him.
"You eat too," she said.
He shook his head.
"Yes, yes," she insisted feverishly.
To pacify her he made a sort of attempt at breakfast, and felt the better
for it. Together they progressed slowly towards the normal. At last the
meal was over. Cuckoo lay back, feeling wonderfully better and calm and
happy. But Julian's eyes were searching hers insistently.
"What have you been doing?" he said. "You've got to tell me. Starving!
What's the meaning of it?"
His voice sounded almost angry and threatening.
"I ain't got any money," she said.
"Why?"
She didn't answer.
"Why--I say?" he repeated.
"Because I've given up the street," she said simply.
"Given up the street--Cuckoo!"
He laid his hand down heavily upon one of hers.
Pages:
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734