“You are not sorry. You are not kind,” she exclaimed vehemently.“You wish that I should be a stranger. Nobody cares for me here, nobody. I wish, oh! that I wish I had never come to England.” And she wound up by bursting into tears and sobbing violently.
Cicely was dismayed. She was sorry for Geneviève, she was vexed with herself for having seemed unkind, but she also thought her cousin very silly. Exaggerated display of feeling chilled and repelled her; it cost her, therefore, a little effort to try to smooth poor Geneviève’s ruffled plumage.
“Dear Geneviève,” she said gently, “I am sorry, very sorry for having hurt you. I am sure you meant no harm, and I am very unkind. It is quite true what Trevor says.”
The last few words were added in a lower voice, as if speaking to herself; but they caught Geneviève’s attention far more effectually than what had preceded them.
“What does he say?” she exclaimed, raising her flushed, tear-stained face from the sofa on which she had thrown herself in her outburst.
Cicely hesitated. “I should not have said it,” she began; “but, after all, I dare say it doesn’t matter. Trevor said I was cold and formal in my manner to you, and that he was afraid you were not happy with us, and that it was my fault Is it so, Geneviève?” she added a little wistfully.
But Geneviève did not answer directly.
“When did Mr. Fawcett say that?” she asked. “I never said to him you were not kind, Cicely.”
“Oh! no; he never said you did. He only spoke from what he had noticed himself. He has said something of the sort two or three times. It was all out of kindness and regard for you,” explained Cicely hastily, a little afraid of rousing another storm.
Her fears were ill-founded. Geneviève’s irritation seemed to have completely disappeared.