“I think not that I have done even as much work as a butterfly since I have been in England,” she said.
“What would you be doing if you were at home now—at Hivèritz?” asked Cicely.
“At home? Home is not Hivèritz just now. They are all in the mountains. Ah, there we occupy ourselves so well! We make the confitures, we help the old farm wife with the butter, the cheese, we seek the eggs. Ah, the life in the mountains is charming!” she replied.
“How nice!” said Cicely contemplatively. “I should like not to be rich—I mean,” she added hastily, fearful of hurting Geneviève by the inference of her words—“I mean I should like to manage everything for ourselves, without servants; to feel that one really worked for one’s living would be so satisfactory.”
“Oh, you silly girl!” said Mr. Fawcett with a smile.
Mr. Guildford smiled too.
“You would find it very different from what you fancy, in practice, I fear, Miss Methvyn,” he said; “still, the instinct is a sound and healthy one.”
“Sound and healthy!” repeated Trevor to himself. “Can’t he forget for five minutes that he’s a doctor?”