The answer was the bald truth. In making it Julian experienced a slight feeling of relief. He was putting into words the vagueness that perplexed him. He wondered why he did go to see Cuckoo.
"But you must know. You must have a reason," said Valentine.
"If I have I don't know what it is. I wish you would tell me, old fellow."
"I can't supply you with reasons for all your actions."
"And I can't supply myself with reasons for any of them," Julian said slowly. The words were leading him to a dawning wonder at his own way of life, a dawning desire to know if there were really any reasons for the things he did. But Valentine did not accept the reply as satisfactory. On the contrary, it evidently irritated him still more, for he said with unusual warmth:
"Your reason for dropping your engagements, throwing me over and wasting my evenings is quite obvious. The blessed damozel of the feathers is attractive to you. Her freshness captivates you. Her brilliant conversation entertains you. She is the powdered and painted reason of these irrelevant escapades."
"Don't sneer at her, Val."
The words came quickly, like a bolt. Valentine frowned, and a deepening suspicion flashed in his eyes.
"I did not think you were so easily flattered," he continued.
"Flattered?"