"Come on," she said, abruptly.
Julian followed her out of the café.
The dream of the moon was with them as they came to the entrance, clear as a quiet soul, directly above them in a clear sky. Julian looked up at it, but Cuckoo looked, with eyes that were almost sullen, at the night panorama of the Circus. They waited a moment on the step. Julian was lighting a cigar, and many other voluble men, most of them French or Italian, were doing likewise. Having lighted it, and given a strong puff or two, Julian said to Cuckoo:
"Shall I drive you home?"
"I ain't going home yet," she replied doggedly. "Are you?"
He hesitated.
"Are you, or aren't you?" she reiterated.
While she spoke, in her voice that was often a little hoarse, a young voice with a thread in it, he realized that somehow she—painted sinner as she was—had managed to make him ashamed of himself. Or was it that an awe had come to his soul with that strange flame? In any case his mood had risen from the old night mood of a young man to something higher, something that could not be satisfied in the sordid way of the world.
"I think I shall go home," he said.
"Right," she answered, and for the first time there was an accent of pleasure in her voice.