Cuckoo, with her eyes on Julian, was silent, too, now. She understood that what her suspicion had affirmed, without actually knowing, was true, and her stormy heart was swept by a whirlwind of jealousy, and of womanish pity for the man she was jealous of. In that moment she felt a sickness of life more sharp than she had ever felt before, and a dull longing to be a different woman, a woman of Julian's class, and clever, that she might be able to do something to keep him from sinking to the level of the men she hated. How could she, in her nakedness of permanent degradation, give a helping hand to anybody? That was a clear rendering of the vague thought, vague as this twilight in which they sat, that ran through her mind. Suddenly she turned to the tray and poured herself out a cup of tea. The tea had been standing while they talked, and was black and strong. She drank it eagerly, and a wave of nervous energy rushed over her, surging up to her brain like light and electricity. It gave to her a sort of reckless valour to say just the thing she felt. She turned towards Julian with a manner that was half shrew, half wildcat--street girls cannot always compass the impressive, though they may feel the great eternities nestling round their hearts--and cried out: "I just hate you!" All her jealousy rang in that cry, smothering the whisper of the maternal passion that went ever with it. Julian could no longer doubt the truth of Valentine's words. "Cuckoo, don't be silly," he said hastily, and awkwardly enough. "Silly!" she burst out. "What do I care for that? I ain't silly, either, and I ain't blind like you are. I can see where you're goin'." "I shall go away from here," Julian said, trying to laugh, "if you talk in this ridiculous way." She sprang up and ran passionately in front of the door, as if she thought he was really going to escape. "No, you don't," she said, and her accent seemed to draw near to that of Whitechapel as her voice rose higher. "Not till I've said what I mean." "Hush, Cuckoo! We shall have Mrs. Brigg up, thinking I'm murdering you." "Let her come! And you are, that's what you are, murderin' me, and worse, seein' you go where you're goin'. He's takin' you. It's all him. Yes, it is! He'll make you as he is." "Cuckoo, I won't have it." Julian spoke sternly and got up. The little dogs, alarmed by the tumult, had begun to whine uneasily, and at his movement Jessie barked in a thin voice. Julian went to Cuckoo, took her wrists in his two hands, and drew her away from the door; but she tore herself from his grasp with fury, for the touch of his hands gave a clearer vision to her jealousy of his secret deeds, and made her understand better the depth of her present feeling. "You shall have it," she cried. "You shall. I know men. I know what you'll be. I know what women'll make of you." "A man makes himself," Julian interrupted.