“Do you?” said Mr. Fawcett. “Who told you, Geneviève?”
“My aunt. She told me yesterday.”
“And were you surprised?” inquired Trevor, with a curious mingling of expressions in his face.
Geneviève did not reply at once. When she did so, there was a change in her tone. Mr. Fawcett’s coldness had galled her.
“What matters it?” she said with some indignation, “what matters it if I was surprised? I, what am I? A butterfly—yes, a butterfly you call me. Butterflies have no soul, no heart; what matters what a butterfly feels?”
Mr. Fawcett thought she was going out of her mind. But her eccentric speech had, at least, the effect of calming down his own irritation. He began to laugh.
“When did I call you a butterfly?” he said. “I don’t remember it.”
Geneviève grew more angry.
“You did say so,” she exclaimed. “One day, I know not when; I forget. It matters not. You think not that I have any heart, any feeling. I suffer when I see you suffer. I tell you I am sorry, very sorry, and you laugh! Cicely is not foolish, as I am. She is calm and quiet. She does not weep when her friends are in trouble. She goes quietly to see some sick villager when she knows you are coming. I am a silly butter fly. Soit donc! I leave you to your Cicely.”
She was really so angry, so mortified and miserable that she hardly knew what she was saying. She was rushing out of the room when Trevor called her back.