“Geneviève,” he exclaimed, “dear Geneviève, I entreat you not to go. Listen to me. You have quite misunderstood me.”
She stopped short at this appeal. She stood still, she looked up in his face with tearful reproach in her beautiful eyes, but she said nothing. Trevor drew near her very near.
“Forgive me, Geneviève,” he said, “I did not mean to hurt you. Are you sorry for me, dear, are you really? Tell me why you are sorry for me?”
He had laid one hand upon her shoulder as he spoke; his voice was very gentle and persuasive.
“I was only sorry to see you unhappy. I meant not to blame Cicely,” replied Geneviève confusedly. “Cicely is very good.”
“Too good, by a long way,” muttered Trevor.
“I only thought that Cicely—that I—” she stopped short.
“That you—? Tell me, do. It can do no harm,” urged Trevor.
“That—that Cicely cared not so much as—I cannot say,” exclaimed Geneviève.
“Shall I say? You mean that Cicely does not care for poor me as much as I do for her—is that it?