"We must all take coffee," he cried. "It will give us impetus, vitality, so that as the old year dies we may live more swiftly, more strongly. I like to feel that my life is increasing while that of another—the old year for instance—is decreasing."
But the doctor noticed that his eyes had rested with a curiously significant expression upon Julian as he spoke the last sentence.
"Leave the coffee-pot on that little table," he added to Wade, when the man had filled all four cups. "We may want it."
Wade obeyed him and disappeared.
"Your man makes wonderful coffee," the doctor said, sipping.
"Yes. Julian, have you reached that café noir I spoke of the other day?" Valentine asked laughingly, returning to his simile of the greedy man and happiness.
"I don't know. Not yet, Val, I think," Julian answered. This coffee seemed to give him life at last. The heavy weariness disappeared from his face. His eyes gleamed with something of their old youthfulness and ardour.
"If so, I must be close on happiness," he added.
As he spoke he looked into the hollow eyes of Cuckoo, seeming, strangely, to seek in them the will-o'-the-wisp of which he spoke.
"Never look for it in unfurnished rooms," Valentine exclaimed with sudden violence.