But Valentine shook his head.
"Not to-day. I have got a cold in my throat."
"Well, then, play something."
But Valentine did not seem to hear the last request. He had turned again to Cuckoo, who visibly shied away from him, and clattered the teacup and saucer, which she held like one alarmed.
"Music is a great art," he said persuasively. "And appeals essentially to one's emotions. I am certain now that you are emotional."
"I don't know, I'm sure," she said, with an effort at self-confidence.
"You feel strongly, whether it be love or hate."
This last remark seemed to reach her, even to stir her to something more definite than mere mauvaise honte. She glanced quickly from Julian to Valentine.
"Love and hate," she responded. "Yes, that's it; I could feel them both.
You're right there, my d—, I mean yes."
And again she looked from one young man to the other. She had put up her veil, which was stretched in a bunched-up mass across her powdered forehead, and Julian had an odd fancy that in the firelight he saw upon her haggard young face the rapid and fleeting expression of the two violently opposed emotions of which she spoke. Her face, turned upon him, seemed to shine with a queer, almost with a ludicrous, vehemence of yearning which might mean passion. This flashed into the sudden frown of a young harridan as her eyes travelled on to Valentine. But the frown died quickly, and she looked downcast, and sat biting her thin lips, and crumbling a biscuit into the tiny blue and white china plate upon her knee.