“I had not a good night,” replied Geneviève; “at least I sat up very late, and I was foolish.”
“What were you about? Writing letters? You must take care or you will have my aunt down upon you; she doesn’t approve of such irregular proceedings,” said Mr. Fawcett.
“I was not writing. I had left the key in the door and I did not remember it, and then when I thought all were asleep I ran out,” began Geneviève, going on to tell him all the particulars of her escapade, Cicely’s alarm and annoyance and her own distress. The frown came back again to Trevor’s good-tempered face.
“It was very foolish,” he said in a tone of considerable vexation. “You should not do such silly things, Geneviève. What must a sensible girl like Cicely think of you? There is no use asking me to advise you how to please the Methvyns and win their confidence, if you do such exceedingly foolish things. Did you tell Cicely why you had had the key?”
“No,” said Geneviève, looking very miserable again; “she knows not that I had ever had it more than once. I feared you might be angry if I told her that—that we had walked in the woods.”
“Why should I be angry?” exclaimed Trevor impatiently. “Do you think I should do anything that I would mind being known to the girl I am go—” he stopped abruptly, “to a girl I have known all her life, as I have known Cicely?”—“It is Cicely’s own doing,” he muttered to himself, “this absurd dilly-dallying and concealment.”
“No, I do not think so, if you tell me not,” replied Geneviève with tearful meekness. “If you wish, I will tell Cicely now, as soon as I go in.”
“No, not now. It is too late. Don’t you see if you tell her now, it will look as if there were something?—I mean it would hurt her more that you had not told her before. No; you had better say nothing more about it. But for the future—don’t think me unkind, Geneviève; but for the future, I almost think you had better not come out walks without Cicely. You see anything underhand may cause so much trouble.”
“Very well,” said Geneviève. “I will no more come out. I will no more speak to you, Mr. Fawcett. We will be as strangers.”
She began the speech with an attempt at tragic dignity; but long before she got to its end her voice had broken again, and all the dignity had melted into sobs. Mr. Fawcett muttered some impatient exclamation.