She spoke in a tone of wounded and disappointed feeling which stung Geneviève to the quick.
“I did speak what was true, Cicely,” she exclaimed vehemently. “I did but go across the park. I took not the key; I went for to seek it.”
“To seek for the key,” replied Cicely coldly. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Geneviève began to cry again. She had admitted more than she intended. Now there was no help for it.
“Yes,” she said, “I went to seek—to fetch the key. I had taken it this morning when I was out, and I had forgotten it and left it in the door. And to-night when we talked about that way I remembered, and I feared to-morrow you might want it perhaps and would not find it and would be angry; or it might be stolen out of the door. I could not rest till, I had sought it.”
“And that was why you ran out so late, and you let me fancy it was only for the pleasure of a little walk in the moonlight. Oh! Geneviève,” exclaimed Cicely reproachfully.
“But I did not mean to tell you what was not true, Cicely,” repeated Geneviève, “and I tell you all true now, I do—I do. I feared you would be angry that I had taken the key. That was all. Do you not believe me, my cousin?” she sobbed.
“Yes,” said Cicely, “I believe you; but I do not understand you, Geneviève.”
But she kissed her again nevertheless, and Geneviève thanked her and promised to trust her kindness for the future, and went off to bed.