Slowly she walked along.  Piccadilly bats fly slowly.  The moon went up.  She had not met her fate.  In the throng she saw Valentine pass.  He looked at her with a smile.  She turned her eyes hastily away.  She had met him on several evenings of late, but had never told Julian so, for she began to understand now his reverence for Valentine, and a new-born, ladylike instinct taught her not to hurt that reverence.  Valentine disappeared.  He had not tried to speak with her.  Once, on encountering her, he had paused, but Cuckoo glided behind two large Frenchwomen and escaped with the adroitness of a snake in the grass.  Apparently he recognized her movement as one of retreat, and was resolved to leave her alone, for he had never followed her since that day, although he always lifted his hat when he saw her.  The crowd grew thicker.  It was very heterogeneous, but Cuckoo did not thread it with the attention of a psychologist, or examine it with the pains of a philosopher of the dark hours.  She stared listlessly at the faces of the men, and if they stared back at her, smiled mechanically with a thin and stereotyped coquetry, moving on vacantly the while in a sort of dream, such as a tired journalist may fall into as he drives his pen over the paper, leaving a train of familiar words and phrases behind it.  There are many dreamers like Cuckoo on the thin riband of that pavement, moving in a maze created by everlasting custom, beneath their flowers, half senseless to life, and yet alive to the least human notice, behind the stretched barriers of their veils.  She walked from the Circus to Hyde Park corner and back again; then turned, with an ever-growing lassitude, to repeat the desolate experience.  By this time the playhouses had vomited their patrons into the night, and locomotion was becoming more difficult.  Sometimes there was a block, and Cuckoo found herself “hung up,” as she called it, squashed in a mass of people, all intent on some scheme of their own, and resentful of the enforced interruption to their movement.  Then, by some unknown and mysterious means, the human knot was untied, and all the atoms murmured on again through the ocean of the town.  And still Cuckoo was alone, and still the mechanical smile came and went upon her lips, and her feet seemed to grow heavier and heavier, till they were as cannon-balls to be lifted and dragged by her protesting muscles.  And still her senses seem to become more and more drugged by the familiarity of it all, the familiarity of smile, of tired limbs, of incessant slow motion, of staring faces and watchful eyes; the familiarity of the cabs rolling home towards Knightsbridge and farther Kensington, with a dull, harsh noise; the familiarity of personal, intense loneliness and longing for quiet; the familiarity of the knowledge that quiet could only be earned by failure, and that failure meant lack of food, debt, and deeper degradation.