Despite her fear of him, something drove her to fight Valentine; only she did not know how to fight him.  It was in a mood of doubt that she had wandered into Harley Street and bent to read the name on the door of Dr. Levillier.  Julian’s description of the doctor had appealed to her.  The mention of his goodness, of his pure life, of his care for others, had impressed her, she scarcely knew why, and brought into her mind a desire to see this little man.  Yet he was devoted to Valentine.  And then Cuckoo, lying back on the sofa, felt heart-sick, wondering at the power of this man whom she hated and feared, wondering how she could ever fight against his influence over Julian; wondering, too, a little, why it was that she knew she must and certainly would fight it.  For beyond the motive power of her love and jealousy, beyond the ordinary woman’s desire to keep the man she admired from sinking to the level of the men she despised, there was another fiery and strong and urging insistent influence working upon her, working within her, crying to her, like a voice, to buckle on her armour and to do battle with the enemy.  This influence came silently from without, and spoke to the lady of the feathers when she was alone, and never more clearly and powerfully than to-night.  It wrestled with her terror of Valentine, and told her to put it away, to come into closer relations with him fearlessly, not to flee from him, but rather to watch him, dog him, learn what he was and what he was doing or trying to do.  Yet fear fought this growing, stirring, strange warm influence that burned like a fire at Cuckoo’s heart.  She flushed and she paled as she lay there, with down-drawn brows and enlaced hands, her yellow hair falling over the hard, shiny horsehair of the sofa.  She longed for some one to come to her who would give her counsel, help, courage, that she might fight for Julian, who was too spell-bound to fight for himself, and who was falling so fast, so terribly fast, into the abyss where men crawl like insects and women are as poisonous weeds in the slime of the pit.

Oh, for some one!

Involuntarily she sat up and extended her thin arms almost as if in a beckoning gesture.

As she did so the front door bell rang.

Cuckoo was startled and felt as if it rang for her.  But that was unlikely; and there were other lodgers of her kind in the house.  No doubt it was a visitor for one of them.

Mrs. Brigg went in weary procession along the passage and opened the door.  A few words were indistinctly spoken in a man’s voice.  Then the street door shut, and almost simultaneously the door of Cuckoo’s sitting-room opened very quietly and Valentine entered.

CHAPTER VIII

VALENTINE EXPOUNDS THE GOSPEL OF INFLUENCE TO THE LADY OF THE FEATHERS

Valentine closed the door behind him and stood by it, looking at Cuckoo gravely.  She had pushed herself up on the sofa, using her elbows as a lever, and in an awkward attitude, half sitting, half lying down, stared at him with startled eyes.  Her unshod feet were drawn in towards her body, and her dyed hair hung in a thick tangle round her face and on her shoulders.  She said nothing.