“Trevor,” she said gently, as, on their way down again she found herself for a moment alone beside him, out of earshot of the others, “Are you unhappy about anything? I wanted everybody to be in good spirits to-day.”
“You haven’t succeeded very well I’m afraid,” he replied moodily; “Miss Casalis looks as if she had been crying all the morning.”
“It does not take much to make Geneviève cry,” said Cicely. “She will be as merry as ever again in a little while, you will see.”
There was no intention of unkindness in her words, but Mr. Fawcett chose to misunderstand her.
“I think you are rather hard upon your cousin, Cicely,” he said coldly. “It is all very well to be strong nerved and self controlled and all the rest of it, but in my opinion that sort of thing may be carried too far.”
“Trevor, you hurt me,” exclaimed Cicely. “More than once lately you have said something like that to me and it pains me. I thought you knew me better. And to-day is my birthday!”
No one could accuse her of want of feeling now. There were tears in her eyes. Mr. Fawcett felt ashamed of himself.
“Dear Cicely, forgive me,” he exclaimed. “I am cross and unreasonable. But it does seem to me sometimes that you think of everybody else more than of me. But I am sorry to have been ill-tempered, especially on your birthday. Next year if all’s well, I hope it will be celebrated differently—I shall have a hand in the arrangements.”
“I shall be twenty-one next year,” said Cicely. “If I were a son there would be a fuss about it, I suppose.”
“Coming of age doesn’t matter to a married woman,” said Trevor pointedly.