"He'd made you mad," she continued.
"He," said Julian. "Who?"
"Your friend."
"Valentine! He had nothing to do with it."
"It was all his doing."
Her voice grew shrill with feeling.
"He's a devil," she said. "I hate him. I hate him worse than I hate that copper west side of Regent Street. And I hate you, too,—yes, I do,—to-day."
The tears gathered in her eyes and began to fall, tears of rage and shame and regret, tears of one who had lost a great possession. Julian looked embarrassed and pained, almost guilty, too. He put out his hand and tried to take Cuckoo's. But she drew hers away and went on crying. She spoke again with vehemence.
"I told you what I wanted you to be; yes, I did," she exclaimed. "Yes,
I told you. You said you only come here to talk to me."
"It was true."