Cuckoo was not conscious of this. Sometimes she was subtle by intuition; often she was not subtle at all. When she understood Julian's nature for the moment, it was because his nature was, for the moment, in close relation to hers. Her fate was affected by it, or its passages of arms clashed near her heart. Then intuition, woman's guardian, had eyes and ears, saw and heard with a distinctness that was nearly brilliant. But when Julian's nature wandered, and the wanderings did not bring it where hers was dwelling, her observation slept soundly enough. So she was not conscious at first of Julian's gentle progress in a new direction. Whether Valentine was conscious of it did not immediately appear, for Julian said nothing. For five years he had not had a secret from Valentine. Now he had to have one. He ranked Valentine with Doctor Levillier as too good to be told of the evil thing. When he had had temptations and resisted them he had told Valentine of them frankly. Now he had temptations, and was beginning not to resist them; he kept silence about them. This silence lasted for a little while, and then Valentine swept it away, involuntarily it seemed, and by means of action, not of words. One day Julian met a man at his club, a lively, devil-may-care soldier of fortune in the world. The man came to where he was sitting and said: "So, Addison, your god has fallen from his pedestal. He's only a Dagon after all." Julian looked at him ignorantly. "What god?" he asked. "Your saint has tumbled from his perch. I never believed in him." He was of the species that never believes in anything except vice and the _Sporting Times_. Julian rejoined: "I don't understand you." "Cresswell," said the man. Julian began to wonder what was coming, and silently got ready for the defence, as he always did instinctively when Valentine was the subject of attack. "What have you got to say about Cresswell?" he asked curtly. "My dear chap, now don't you get your frills out. Nothing that I should mind being said about me, I assure you. Only Cresswell will soon lose his nickname if he goes on as he's going now." "I'm in the dark." "That's what he likes being, if what they say is true. Quite a night-bird, I'm told." "You'd better be more explicit." But the man glanced at Julian's face and seemed to think better of it. He moved off muttering: "Damned rot, minding a little chaff. And when we're all in the same boat too."