He had taken the trouble to ascertain from Julian the exact date of
Valentine's first introduction to the lady of the feathers.
"Oh yes," said Cuckoo, still with absolute incredulity of the truth of the doctor's panegyric expressed in voice and look.
"Men change greatly, terribly."
"Oh, not like that," she jerked out suddenly, moved by an irresistible impulse to contradict his apparent deduction.
"No, there you are right," he answered with emphasis. "Sane men do not, can never, I believe, change so utterly."
"That's what I say. I've seen men go down, lots of 'em, but it ain't like that."
Cuckoo spoke with some authority, as of one speaking from depths of a deep experience. She put her hands under the warm rug with a sensation of something that was like dignity of mind. She and the doctor were talking on equal terms of intellectuality just at this moment. She was saying sensible things and he was obliged to agree with her.
"Not like that," she murmured again out of the embrace of the rug.
He turned towards her so that he could see her more distinctly and make his words more impressive.
"Remember now that what I am going to say to you must not be mentioned to Julian on any account, or to any one," he said.