“But you do not,” said Geneviève.
Something in the tone roused Cicely.
“I never said I did not wish it,” she answered with a touch of haughtiness. “Geneviève, you should be careful what you say.”
“Forgive me, Cicely. I meant not to vex you. It was only that—I do not understand, I suppose—but it seemed to me strange that Mr. Fawcett should wish to hasten it, if it is your wish to wait a year.”
“No,” answered Cicely gently again,“no, it is different for him. Our marriage involves for him no breaking of old ties as it does for me. It is quite different.”
But in her heart of hearts, Geneviève’s remark had left a little sting. It was strange that her wishes had no longer their old weight with Trevor. She had already owned to herself that it was so, but the putting into words of the thought by another—an outside disinterested spectator—brought it home to her with increased pain and acuteness.
And Geneviève, for her part, had got some new lights on the subject of her cousin’s affairs.
They went out together—through the pleasant shady lanes which led to Notcotts, Cicely carrying a small basket packed with delicacies for the little invalid. She had always loved children, but of late she had seemed to look upon them with an increased tenderness. She loved to see them happy, but it was the sight of childish suffering that called forth her deepest sympathy.
“How sad it must be for a little child to be ill in the summer-time,” she remarked. They had stopped to rest for a moment or too by a stile, for the basket was rather heavy. Cicely set it down on the ground beside her, and gazed up into the mid summer sky with a wistfulness in her eyes.
“Is the little child that you are going to see very ill?” asked Geneviève, more for the sake of saying something than because she felt much interest in the matter.