“But, dearie, I shall be a trottin’ funeral, that I shall,” she expostulated, divided between excitement and perplexity.

“No; you’ll look splendid.  And Cuckoo—­”

He hesitated, aware that he was treading on the divine quicksand of woman’s prejudices.

“Cuckoo, I want you to make a little experiment for my sake.”

“Whatever is it, dearie?”

“Just on that one night take—­take all that off.”

With an almost timid gesture, and growing boyishly red, he indicated the art decoration, pink and pale, that adorned her face.

Poor Cuckoo looked completely flabbergasted.

“What?” she said uncertainly; “don’t you like me with it?”

“No.”

“Well, but, I don’t know.”

Such an experiment evidently struck her as portentous, earth-shaking.  She stared into the dingy glass that stood over the mantelpiece in Marylebone Road.

“I shall look a hag,” she muttered, with conviction.  “I shall.”

“You never had it, before you started.”

Her eyes grew round.

“Ah, that was jolly different, though,” she said.

“Try it,” he urged.  “Go and try it now, then come and show me.”

“I don’t like to.”

The idea reduced her almost to shyness.  But she got up falteringly, and moved towards the bedroom.  When she was by the folding door she said: 

“I say.”

“Well?”

“I say, you won’t laugh at me?”

“Of course not.”

“You won’t—­honour?”

“Honour!”

She disappeared.  And there was the sound of many waters.  Julian listened to it, repeating under his breath that word of many meanings, that panorama-word, honour.  Among thieves, among prostitutes, among murderers, rebels, the lost, the damned of this world, still does it not sing, like a bird that is too hopeful of some great and beautiful end ever to be quite silent?

Julian waited, while Cuckoo washed away her sin of paint and powder, at first nervously, then with a certain zest that was almost violent, that splashed the water on floor and walls, and sent the shivering Jessie beneath the bed for shelter.  Cuckoo scrubbed and scrubbed, then applied a towel, until her skin protested in patches.  Finally, and with a disturbed heart, she approached the sitting-room.  Her voice came in to Julian while she remained hidden: 

“I say—­”

“Yes.”

“I know you will laugh.”

“Honour, Cuckoo, honour.”

“Oh, all right.”

And she came in to him, hanging her head down, rather like a child among strangers, ashamed, poor thing, of looking respectable.  Julian was astonished at the change the water had wrought.  Cuckoo looked another woman, or rather girl, oddly young, thin, and haggard certainly, and the reverse of dashing, but pretty, even fascinating, in her shyness.  As he looked at her and saw the real red of nature run over her cheeks in waves of faint rose color, Julian understood fully all that the girl gives up when she gives up herself, and the wish—­smiled at by Valentine—­came to him again, the wish to reclaim her.