"Yes, very much."
Julian found himself again wondering, with Cuckoo, mightily at Valentine's vagary of desire. She touched his hand with her long, thin fingers.
"You'll stay with me all the time?"
"Why, of course."
"You won't leave me? Not alone with him, I mean."
"No; don't be so absurd."
A new hesitation sprang into her face.
"But what am I to go in?" she said. "He—he don't like my red."
So her awe and dislike prompted her to a desire of pleasing Valentine after all, and had led her shrewdly to read his verdict on her poorly smart gown. Julian, pleased at his apparent victory, now ventured on a careful process of education, on the insertion of the thin edge of the wedge, as he mutely named it.
"Cuckoo," he said, "let me give you a present,—a dress. Now," as she began to shake her tangled head, "don't be silly. I have never given you anything, and if we are to be pals you mustn't be so proud. Can you get a dress made in three days,—a black dress?"