Her gentleness made Trevor reproach himself for having wounded her. He set to work forthwith to “reward principle” by undoing what he had achieved.
“You are a very good child,” he said warmly. “You are very good not to be angry with me for my roughness. You are not angry with me, are you?”
She had turned her head away, but on his repeating the question, she looked up again in his face; with infinite sweetness in the tender dark eyes and pathos in the droop of the tremulous lips. She looked like a rose after a storm, like a child unjustly chidden, like everything sweet and plaintive and piteous.
“Angry with you?” she said reproachfully.
Trevor’s face softened into tenderness as he looked at her.
“You are an angel,” he said impetuously, but checking himself with a strong effort; “you are a very kind, sensible girl,” he went on, with a little laugh, “which is better than being an angel, isn’t it?”
Geneviève smiled. Trevor saw the smile, but he had not seen the quick flash of gratification and triumph which had lighted up the dark eyes the instant before.
“I think I must go home now,” she said.
“Very well,” said Mr. Fawcett. I will go as far as the gate with you.”
“It is no use going that way,” said Geneviève, “you forget I have not the key.”