"Ah, you speak of her will for herself," the doctor said, thinking of Cuckoo's broken wail to him, as she sat on that autumn evening in his consulting-room. "But what of her will for another, her soul for another?"
He had spoken partly at random, partly led by the thought, the suspicion, that Cuckoo's abandoned body held a fine love for Julian. He was by no means prepared for the striking effect his remark had upon Valentine. No sooner were the words spoken than a strong expression of fear was visible in Valentine's face, of terror so keen that it killed the anger which had preceded it. He trembled as he stood, till the table shook; and apparently noticing this, and wishing to conceal so extreme an exhibition of emotion, he slid hastily into a seat.
"Her will for another," he repeated,—"for another. What do you mean by that? where's the other, then? who is it?"
The doctor looked upon him keenly.
"Anybody for whom she has any desire, any solicitude, or any love—you, myself, or—Julian."
"Julian!" Valentine repeated unsteadily. "Julian! you mean to say you—"
He pulled himself together abruptly.
"Doctor," he said, "forgive me for saying that you are scarcely talking sense when you assume that such a creature as Cuckoo Bright can really love anybody. And even if she did, Julian's the last man—oh, but the whole thing is absurd. Why should you and I talk about a street-girl, a drab whose life begins and ends in the gutter? Julian will be here directly. Meanwhile let us have coffee."
He pushed his cigarette-case over to the doctor and touched the bell.
"Coffee!" he said, when Julian's man answered it.