"Malicious—no!"
"You won't chaff her?"
"Chaff a lady who wears more feathers than ever 'growed on one ostrich,' and who was the intime of the mysterious Marr? Julian, Julian!"
Then, seeing that Julian still looked rather uncomfortable, Valentine added, dropping his mock heroic manner:
"Don't be afraid. We will give the lady one good hour."
"Ah!" Julian cried, struck by the expression, "that's what the doctor wished to give to every poor wretch in London."
"We don't ask the doctor to our tea," Valentine replied, with a sudden coldness.
The invitation was conveyed to the lady of the feathers, and in due course an answer was received, a mosaic of misspelling and obvious gratification.
"My dear," ran the missive, "I will com. I shall be pleased to see you agane, but I thorght I shoold not. Men say—oh yes, I shall com back—but not many does, and I thorght praps you was like the all the rest. Your friend is very good to assk me, and I am,
"Yr loving,
"Cuckoo."