"Don't you think we had better stop?"
"If you like."
Valentine got up and turned on the light.
Then they saw that the lady of the feathers, leaning back in her chair, was fallen asleep, no doubt from sheer weariness. Her face was very white, and in sleep its expression had become ethereal and purified. Her thin hands still rested nervelessly upon the table. She seemed like a little child that had known sorrow early, and sought gently to lose the sense of it in rest.
"Cuckoo," Julian said, leaning over her, "Cuckoo!"
She stirred and woke.
"I'm awfully done," she murmured, in her street voice. "Pardon!"
She sat up.
"I seemed as if I was put to sleep," she said.
"You were," Valentine answered her. "I willed that you should sleep."