spell upon him had changed in nature; for Valentine was still as a god to him.  And Cuckoo could never be a goddess, either to him or to any one else.  But, though he would scarcely acknowledge it even to himself, he did not care for Cuckoo to know fully the changing way of his life.  Perhaps it was the curiously strong line she had from the first taken with regard to his actions that made him careful with her.  Perhaps it was the incident of the vision of the flame—­but no; remembrance of that had been well-nigh lulled to sleep by the lullabies of Valentine, by his disregard of it, his certainty that it was an hallucination, a mirage.  Whatever the cause might be, Julian felt somewhat like a naughty boy in the angry presence of Cuckoo.  As he looked at her the greenish twilight painted a chill and menacing gleam in her eyes, and made her twisting lips venomous and acrid to his glance.  Her rouge vanished in the twilight, or seemed only as a dull, darkish cloud upon her thin and worn cheeks.  She sat at the table almost like a scarecrow, giving the tables of some strange law to a trembling and an unwilling votary.

“I know!” she reiterated.

Julian said nothing.  He did not choose to deny what was in fact the truth, that his stay in Paris had not been free from fault, and yet he did not feel inclined to do what most men in his situation must by all means have done, challenge Cuckoo’s right to sit in judgment, or even for a moment to criticise any action of his.  There was something about her, a frankness perhaps, which made it impossible to put her out of court by any allusion to her own life.  And indeed that must have been cowardice and an impossibility.  Besides, she put herself and her own deeds calmly away as unworthy and impossible of discussion, as things sunk down beneath the wave of notice or comment, remote from criticism or condemnation, because the life of their hopelessness had been so long and sunless.

Cuckoo, with her eyes on Julian, was silent, too, now.  She understood that what her suspicion had affirmed, without actually knowing, was true, and her stormy heart was swept by a whirlwind of jealousy, and of womanish pity for the man she was jealous of.  In that moment she felt a sickness of life more sharp than she had ever felt before, and a dull longing to be a different woman, a woman of Julian’s class, and clever, that she might be able to do something to keep him from sinking to the level of the men she hated.

How could she, in her nakedness of permanent degradation, give a helping hand to anybody?  That was a clear rendering of the vague thought, vague as this twilight in which they sat, that ran through her mind.  Suddenly she turned to the tray and poured herself out a cup of tea.  The tea had been standing while they talked, and was black and strong.  She drank it eagerly, and a wave of nervous energy rushed over her, surging up to her brain like light and electricity.  It gave to her a sort of reckless valour to say just the thing she felt.  She turned towards Julian with a manner that was half shrew, half wildcat—­street girls cannot always compass the impressive, though they may feel the great eternities nestling round their hearts—­and cried out: