“Really, Miss Casalis, you are unreasonable this morning,” he began. “I was only doing as you asked me to do—advising you for the best, and you begin to cry.”
“I will go home. I wish I had never come to this unkind country, where everybody says things so little amiable, so cruel,” sobbed Geneviève.
“Who says unkind things? Do you mean me?”
“No, not you. Till to-day you have been kind, very kind. But others do. That médecin, that Mr. Guildford, told me that it was not convenable that I should walk with you.”
“He did—did he? Upon my soul that fellow must be taught his place. Meddling snob! When did he condescend to remonstrate with you, may I ask?”
“The day at the picnic. He had seen us that afternoon, two, three weeks ago, on the Greybridge Road. But he was not unkind,” said Geneviève, a little afraid of the effect of her words. “He only told me other people might—I know not what to say—might say it was not convenable.”
“How very considerate of him!” observed Mr. Fawcett. “But perhaps you do not object to his interest, Miss Casalis—perhaps you consulted him as to the matter.”
“You know well I did not. I like him not,” said Geneviève, her eyes flashing. “Mr. Fawcett, you are not kind to-day. You are not as you have been before.”
“I don’t mean to be unkind, my dear child. I don’t indeed. I have been bothered about things lately, and I was put out at the idea of any misunderstanding between you and Cicely. But I dare say it will be all right. Only perhaps we had better all go walks together in future; for fear, you see, of it seeming to Cicely as if we left her out.”
“Very well,” said Geneviève meekly, and this time without any tears. She had sense enough to see that Mr. Fawcett was not in a mood to care about many more of them this morning. “It is getting late,” she went on, looking at her watch, “perhaps I had better go home.”