Together they crossed the Circus and mingled with the humming mob at the corner of Regent Street. They pushed their way towards Piccadilly with difficulty, for numbers of people at this hour do not attempt to walk, but stand stock still, despite the cry of the policeman, staring at the passers-by, or talking and laughing with the women who throng the pavement. Having elbowed their way along as far as the St. James restaurant, they began to move with a little more ease, and could have talked as they went, but apparently neither of them felt conversational. Julian was comparing the vision of the moon with the vision of the street, a comparison no doubt often made even by young men in London on still nights of summer, suggestive to most people, perhaps, of much the same thoughts--yet a comparison to thrill, as all the wild and eternal contrasts of life thrill. And Julian was thinking, too, rather sombrely of himself. Cuckoo walked on beside him, looking straight before her. Quite unconsciously, with the unconsciousness of a mechanical toy, expressive at the turning of a key in its interior, she had assumed her thin, invariable, professional smile. It came to her face in a flash when the pavement of Piccadilly came to her feet. She did not know it was there. The moon looked down on it, yet, if Julian had been able to see, perhaps the little flame still flickered in those eyes which had been full of tears. But a little beyond St. James's Hall their silent progress was arrested, for they both saw Valentine pass them swiftly in the crowd. He saw them, too, but did not attempt to speak to them. With a smile at Julian he walked on. Julian gazed after him, then turned to Cuckoo. "And you saw him here to-night before I met you?" he asked. "Yes." "How long ago?" "Two hours, I dare say." After that Julian ceased to think of the vision of the moon. But presently he noticed that Cuckoo was walking more slowly. "You're tired?" he said. She nodded. "Have you been out all the evening?" She nodded again. "Take a cab and go home. I'll pay the man." "No; I can't go yet." "Why not?" "I can't," she repeated, and a mulish look of obstinacy came into her face. Julian guessed the miserable reason. "Let me--" he began, and in a moment his hand would have been in his pocket. She stopped him. "I told you as I never would, not from you," she said. "And I wouldn't, all the more since--since that night." Then, after an instant, she added: "But you'd better leave me to myself now." And then Julian realized that his presence and company were ruining her chance. That thought turned him sick and dull. "I can't," he began almost desperately. She gave with her hand a little twitch at his. "I say," she whispered, and she spoke to him as if to Jessie in the tiny flannel-lined basket, "Go bials! will you?" "But you?" he said, and there was something that was half a sob in his voice. "I can't. But you--go bials."