He had spoken partly at random, partly led by the thought, the suspicion, that Cuckoo’s abandoned body held a fine love for Julian.  He was by no means prepared for the striking effect his remark had upon Valentine.  No sooner were the words spoken than a strong expression of fear was visible in Valentine’s face, of terror so keen that it killed the anger which had preceded it.  He trembled as he stood, till the table shook; and apparently noticing this, and wishing to conceal so extreme an exhibition of emotion, he slid hastily into a seat.

“Her will for another,” he repeated,—­“for another.  What do you mean by that? where’s the other, then? who is it?”

The doctor looked upon him keenly.

“Anybody for whom she has any desire, any solicitude, or any love—­you, myself, or—­Julian.”

“Julian!” Valentine repeated unsteadily.  “Julian! you mean to say you—­”

He pulled himself together abruptly.

“Doctor,” he said, “forgive me for saying that you are scarcely talking sense when you assume that such a creature as Cuckoo Bright can really love anybody.  And even if she did, Julian’s the last man—­oh, but the whole thing is absurd.  Why should you and I talk about a street-girl, a drab whose life begins and ends in the gutter?  Julian will be here directly.  Meanwhile let us have coffee.”

He pushed his cigarette-case over to the doctor and touched the bell.

“Coffee!” he said, when Julian’s man answered it.

The door stood open, and as the man murmured, “Yes, sir,” a dog close by howled shrilly.

The noise diverted Valentine’s attention and roused him from the agitation into which he had fallen.  He glanced at the doctor.

“Rip,” he said.

“Howling for his master,” said the doctor.

“Wait a moment,” Valentine said to the man, who was preparing to leave the room.  Then, to the doctor: 

“I am his master.”

“To be sure,” rejoined the doctor, who had, in truth, for the moment forgotten the fact, so long a time had elapsed since the little dog took up his residence with Julian.

“You think he’s howling for me?” Valentine said.

“I was thinking of Julian at the moment.”

“And what do you say now?  Still that he is howling for his master?”

The dog’s voice was heard again.  It sounded almost like a shriek of fear.

“No,” the doctor replied, wondering what intention was growing in
Valentine’s face.

“Oh!” Valentine said curtly.

He turned to the man.

“Bateman, bring Rip in here to us.”

The man hesitated.

“I don’t think he’ll come, sir.”

“I said, bring him to us.”

The man went out, as if with reluctance.  Valentine turned to the doctor.

“We spoke about soul—­that is, will—­just now,” he said.  “To deny the will is death, despite Schopenhauer.  Death?  Worse than death—­cowardice.  To assert the will is life and victory.  With each assertion a man steps nearer to a god.  With each conquest of another will a man mounts, and if any man wants to enjoy an eternity he must create it for himself by feeding his will or soul with conquest till it is so strong that it cannot die.”