“You are making your grand tour towards happiness,” he exclaimed.  “Dessert, café noir—­then the cigarette and contentment.”

“I have had the café noir,” Julian said, indicating his empty cup, which Wade had by accident omitted to clear away.  “I have had the cigarette.”

“Well.  What then?  Are you unhappy?”

“I tell you I don’t know.  Give me some more absinthe.”

The doctor watched his excitement growing as he drank.  It seemed an excitement adverse to Valentine.

“One may have too much black coffee,” he suddenly said.

“And that exerts a very depressing effect upon the nerves,” said the doctor, taking him literally.  “Neither you nor I are likely to sleep well to-night, Addison.”

“I never sleep well now, doctor,” Julian said.

All this time he continued to regard Valentine in the peculiar, observant manner of a stranger who is trying to make up his mind about the unfamiliar man at whom he looks.

“Then you should not drink black coffee.”

As he spoke a very faint sound of bells penetrated to the tentroom.

“The psychological moment!” said Valentine.

And then they were all silent, listening.

To the doctor, the prey of magic art since the soft cry of the lady of the feathers, the bells seemed magical and strange to-night, thin and dreamy and remote.  They rang outside the circle of the flames, yet they, too, had an eerie meaning.  Nor did their music come, he thought, from any church tower, from any belfry, summoned by the tugging hands of men.  Very softly they rang.  Their sound was deadened by the thick draperies.  They ceased.

“My year is born,” Valentine said.

“Your year?” the doctor repeated.

“Yes.  I feel that in this year I shall culminate; I shall touch a point; I shall put the corner-stone to the temple of my ambition.  No one can prevent me now, no one.  Look, she has fainted!”

He had been watching Cuckoo, and had seen her posture of mere rest change, almost imperceptibly, to the prostration of insensibility.

The doctor sprang up from his chair.  Julian uttered an exclamation.  Valentine only smiled.  The door was opened.  A fan was used.  Air was let into the room.  Presently Cuckoo stirred and sat up.  The three men were gathered round her, and suddenly Valentine said: 

“My trance over again.  The lady of the feathers imitates me.”

Julian turned round to him with abrupt irritation.

“That’s not so,” he said.  “Cuckoo is herself always.”  He turned again to her.

“Are you better?” he asked, touching her hand gently.

“Yes, I’m all right.  It was—­them.”

She glanced vaguely round at the tulips, as if searching for the cause of the scent which filled the room.

“There are hyacinths somewhere,” the doctor said.

“Yes, they are hidden!” said Valentine.  “A hidden power is the greatest power.  But now you may see them.”