"Why was he there?"
"Just to see Cuckoo, you know, in a friendly way."
Valentine realized then that the battle had begun. He divined the meaning of the doctor's visit. He guessed what it had done for the lady of the feathers. And he sat silent while Julian went on drinking more champagne.
"I believe he likes Cuckoo, Val. I am sure he does. And he behaved quite as if—quite as if he—you know—respected her. And it's all nonsense her hating you, and having a battle, and all that kind of thing, with you. She's only fanciful. She's not—"
"Would you give her up if I asked you to? Mind, Julian, I don't say I ever shall ask you. But if I do?"
"Don't ask me to, don't ask me. Poor Cuckoo, poor girl, she's got no friends, money, or—or anything. Poor Cuckoo. Poor Cuck—Cuck—"
He fell back in his chair, nodding his head, and reiterating his commiseration for the lady of the feathers in a faint and recurring hiccough. Valentine got up and rang the bell.
"The bill, please, waiter."
"Yes, sir."
The man glanced at Julian with the shadow of a pleasing, and apparently also pleased, smile and withdrew. Valentine stood for a moment looking at the leaning figure on the chair, relaxed in the first throes of a drunken slumber. His anger and almost unbridled emotion completely died away as he looked.