“Yes; but he could not stay long; he had letters to write or something, and hurried home. Had you a pleasant drive, mother? You look all the better for it, Geneviève,” said Cicely, speaking more quickly than usual, and making greater clatter among the tea-cups than her wont.
“We had a very nice drive,” replied Mrs. Methvyn, and then, quick to take her daughter’s hint, she went on to speak about the commissions they had executed at Greybridge, the neighbours they had met, and the news they had heard, without further allusion to Mr. Fawcett or his call.
Geneviève had fixed her eyes on her cousin when Trevor’s name was first mentioned. She, too, had noticed something unusual in Cicely’s manner. “Can it be that they have quarrelled,” she said to herself, a throb of joy passing through her at the very thought. The mere possibility of such a thing made her feel amiable, and almost capable of pitying her cousin. She got up from her seat and came forward to the tea-table to help Cicely.
“Thank you, dear,” said Cicely. She glanced at Geneviève as she spoke. Some thing in her expression smote Geneviève—a look of distress and endurance, a pained, perplexed expression, new to the calm, fair face. Geneviève carried a cup of tea to Mrs. Methvyn, and then went back to her seat, feeling unhappy and bewildered and hopeful all at once. And as she reflected further on the position of things, the last feeling gradually came to predominate, the shadow of self-reproach faded away. What if Cicely and her lover had quarrelled, and about her! She was not to blame. She had been kept in the dark as to the true state of affairs; and even if she had known it, could she have prevented what had happened?
“I did not make my own face,” thought Geneviève complacently. “I cannot make myself ugly, and if people fall in love with me, it is not my fault.”
She was quite ready to believe that Mr. Guildford, too, was fast falling a victim to her charms. The idea was not unpleasing to her. It brightened her eyes and added sweetness to her smile, as she turned to speak to the young man who stood beside her, absorbed, so it seemed to Mrs. Methvyn, in the contemplation of her lovely face. Cicely noticed them too, and a little sigh escaped her. Was a lovely face the one thing after all? It almost seemed so.
Soon after Mr. Guildford left them, Geneviève went out into the garden, and the mother and daughter were alone.
“Don’t you think that what I said is very evident now, Cicely?” asked Mrs. Methvyn.
“What?” said Cicely absently, listlessly raising her eyes, “what was it that you said, mother?”
“About Geneviève—about Mr. Guildford’s admiring her. Don’t you remember?” said Mrs. Methvyn impatiently.