She turned upon him boldly with the question, and he knew her for the first time as an antagonist, who might actively attack as well as passively hate. He leaned forward, and looked into her eyes searchingly, with a sort of rapture, of anxiety, too. It recalled something to Cuckoo. She tried to remember what, but for a moment could not. Then, as if reassured, he resigned his eager and nervous posture of inquiry. That second movement brought the light that Cuckoo's puzzled mind sought. It was Julian who had looked first into her eyes with that strange watchfulness. These men echoed one another in that glance which she could not understand. What they sought in her eyes she could not tell. If it were the same thing it could not be love. And it seemed to be a thing that they feared to find. "Doctor Levillier is a great friend of mine," Valentine said. "He is a famous nerve-doctor. Seeing you hovering about his door led me to suppose you might be ill, and were going to consult him. I hope you are not ill." "Not I!" "Because he is away from home at present." "Oh!" "Do you want to see him?" "I suppose I can see him, like any one else, if I've a mind to." "Well! He's--he doesn't see quite every one. His practice is only among the richest and smartest people in town. Some one else might answer your purpose better." He spoke suavely, but the words he said cemented Cuckoo's previously vague thought of trying, perhaps, to see Doctor Levillier into a sudden, strong determination. She divined that, for some reason, Valentine was anxious that she should not see him. That was enough. She would, at whatever cost, make his acquaintance. "I'll see him if I like," she said hastily, lost to any appreciation of wisdom, through the desire of aiming an instant blow at Valentine. "Of course! Why not?" was his reply. "You don't want me to. I can see that," she went on, still more unadvisedly. "You needn't think as you can get over me so easily." Valentine's smile showed a certain contempt that angered her. "I know you," she cried. "Do you?" he said. "I wonder if you would like to know me? Do you remember Marr?" The lady of the feathers turned cold. "Marr!" she faltered; "what of him?" "You have not forgotten him." "He's dead!" A pause. "He's dead, I say." "Exactly! As dead as a strong man who has lived long in the world ever can be." "What d'you mean? I say he's dead and buried and done with." Her voice was rather noisy and shrill. "That's just where you make a mistake," Valentine said quite gravely, rather like a philosopher about to embark upon an argument. "He is not done with. Suppose you fear a man, you hate him, you kill him, you put him under the ground, you have not done with him."