Part 44 (1/2)
”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.”
”But, dearie, I shall be a trottin' funeral, that I shall,” she expostulated, divided between excitement and perplexity.
”No; you'll look splendid. And Cuckoo--”
He hesitated, aware that he was treading on the divine quicksand of woman's prejudices.
”Cuckoo, I want you to make a little experiment for my sake.”
”Whatever is it, dearie?”
”Just on that one night take--take all that off.”
With an almost timid gesture, and growing boyishly red, he indicated the art decoration, pink and pale, that adorned her face.
Poor Cuckoo looked completely flabbergasted.
”What?” she said uncertainly; ”don't you like me with it?”
”No.”
”Well, but, I don't know.”
Such an experiment evidently struck her as portentous, earth-shaking. She stared into the dingy gla.s.s that stood over the mantelpiece in Marylebone Road.
”I shall look a hag,” she muttered, with conviction. ”I shall.”
”You never had it, before you started.”