"No, there's no time to get another—now." Aunt Julia looked even more sorrowful than Genevieve just then—Aunt Julia had wanted Genevieve to take that prize.
"I'm sure that Cordelia—when she knows—" Genevieve did not finish her sentence.
"No, indeed! Of course, if Cordelia should know—" Aunt Julia did not finish her sentence.
"But, Aunt Julia, she'll have to know," almost sobbed Genevieve.
There was a long silence. Genevieve's eyes were out the window. Mrs. Kennedy, watching her, suddenly spoke up with careless briskness:
"Of course you'll tell Cordelia that 'twas your subject, that you got it first, and that you want it. Very likely she won't care much, anyway."
"Why, Aunt Julia, she will! If you could have seen her face when she talked of it—" Genevieve stopped abruptly. Genevieve did suddenly see Cordelia's face as it had been that afternoon, all aglow with happiness. She heard her eager voice say, too: "I think it's the best thing I ever did!"
"Oh, well, but maybe she doesn't care for the prize," observed Mrs. Kennedy, still carelessly.
"But, Aunt Julia, she does; she—" Again Genevieve stopped abruptly. She was remembering now how Cordelia's face had looked that February afternoon at the parsonage when she had said: "Of course I sha'n't win it—dear me, how I would love to, though!"
"But she'll understand, of course, when you tell her it's your subject and that you want it," went on Mrs. Kennedy, smoothly. Genevieve did not see the keen, almost fearful glances, that Mrs. Kennedy was giving her between the light words.