When her aunt stopped speaking, and waited in expectation of Geneviève’s reply, none came. Mrs. Methvyn looked up in surprise.
“Are you very much astonished, my dear?” she said. “Had you no idea of it? You are not taking it to heart, dear Geneviève, I hope? If so, I shall blame myself very much for not having prepared you for it before, though I can well understand your regret at losing Cicely just when you have begun to know her.”
Geneviève seized the suggestion. She turned to her aunt, no longer repressing her tears.
“I had no idea of it,” she whispered.
“My poor child,” said Mrs. Methvyn.
Then she drew the girl towards her and kissed her tenderly, and, mistaken as was the motive of the tenderness, in Geneviève’s state of overstrained feeling she had no desire to repel it. She threw her arms round her aunt and sobbed convulsively till Mrs. Methvyn cried in sympathy.
“Is it to be very soon?” asked Geneviève at last.
“Oh! no; nothing is fixed yet as to the exact time. It will not be for six months at least. We shall have Cicely all to ourselves for some time yet, you see, dear,” replied Mrs. Methvyn soothingly. But Geneviève felt that she could not bear her present position much longer. The sound of a door opening gave her an excuse; she started up.
“There is Cicely coming,” she exclaimed. “I would not like her to see me crying so. Let me go, dear aunt, and forgive my want of self-control. I should like to go to my own room for a little.”
“Go then, dear,” said Mrs. Methvyn, kissing her again, and Geneviève hastened away.