The lifelessness left Julian's voice as he exclaimed:
"Valentine! But you were—"
"Sober, and you were not. Can you deny it?"
Julian was silent.
"I so little meant that nonsense," Valentine continued, "that I have conceived a plan. To-morrow is the last night of the old year. The doctor asked us to spend it with him. We refused. Providence directed that refusal, for now we are at liberty to celebrate the proper occasion for burying hatchets by burying our particular hatchet. The lady of the feathers, your friend, my enemy, shall see the new year in here, in this tentroom, where long ago we—you and I—with how ill success, sought to exchange our souls."
Julian looked utterly astonished at this proposition.
"Cuckoo wouldn't come here," he began.
"So you said once before. But she came then, and she will come now."
"And then the doctor! If he gets to hear of it! We said we were dining out."
Valentine's hard smile grew yet harder, and his eyes sparkled eagerly.