“No; but that’s absurd.  For instance, it can’t be his looks.”

“It is.”

“Why, he’s wonderfully handsome.”

“I don’t care.  I hate his face; yes, I do.”

Julian impatiently pitied her as one pities a blind man who knocks up against one in the street.  But he thought it best to abandon Valentine’s appearance to its unhappy fate of her dislike, and sailed away on another tack.

“My friend likes you,” he said, as he thought, craftily.

Cuckoo tossed her head without reply.

“He said he would rather go with you on Saturday than with any one in London.”

This last remark seemed to produce a considerable effect upon the girl.

“Did he, though?” she asked, one finger going up to her under lip, reflectively.  “Really, truly?”

“Really, truly.”

“What should he want with me?  He’s—­he’s not one of the usual sort.”

“Valentine usual!  I should think not.”

“And he wants me to go?”

Certainly she was impressed and flattered.

“Yes, very much.”

Julian found himself again wondering, with Cuckoo, mightily at Valentine’s vagary of desire.  She touched his hand with her long, thin fingers.

“You’ll stay with me all the time?”

“Why, of course.”

“You won’t leave me?  Not alone with him, I mean.”

“No; don’t be so absurd.”

A new hesitation sprang into her face.

“But what am I to go in?” she said.  “He—­he don’t like my red.”

So her awe and dislike prompted her to a desire of pleasing Valentine after all, and had led her shrewdly to read his verdict on her poorly smart gown.  Julian, pleased at his apparent victory, now ventured on a careful process of education, on the insertion of the thin edge of the wedge, as he mutely named it.

“Cuckoo,” he said, “let me give you a present,—­a dress.  Now,” as she began to shake her tangled head, “don’t be silly.  I have never given you anything, and if we are to be pals you mustn’t be so proud.  Can you get a dress made in three days,—­a black dress?”

“Yes,” she said.  “But black!  I shall look a dowdy.”

“No.”

“Oh, but I shall,” she murmured, dismally.  “Colours suits me best.  You see I’m thin now; not as I was when I—­well, before I started.  Ah, I looked different then, I did.  I don’t want to be a scarecrow and make you ashamed of me.”

Julian longed to tell her that it was the rouge, the feathers, the scarlet skirt, the effusive bugles, that made a scarecrow of her.  But he had a rough diplomacy that taught him to refrain.  He stuck to his point, however.

“I shall give you a black dress and hat—­”

“Oh, my hat’s all right now,” she interposed.  “Them feathers is beautiful.”

“Splendid; but I’ll give you a hat to match the dress, and a feather boa, and black suede gloves.”