“I know not. No, not that,” replied the girl with crimson cheeks and downcast eyes.
“What is it then? Did you mean that she does not care for me as much as a silly little girl I know, will care, some day, for some lucky man who will believe she has a heart? Was that what you meant?”
Geneviève whispered a scarcely audible “Yes.”
“You kind, good little girl,” said Trevor impulsively. But Geneviève shrunk back.
“You know not,” she said, “that day you speak of, that ‘some day’ will never come to me.”
Then she threw away the hand that still rested on her shoulder; she darted one reproachful glance at Mr. Fawcett—“Do you understand me now?” it seemed to say; “do you see what you have done?” and rushed out of the room.
Not a moment too soon. As her figure disappeared through the library door, a slight sound at the window made Trevor look up. There at the glass door stood Cicely, her empty basket on her arm, a smile of welcome on her face as she caught sight of Mr. Fawcett. “Trevor,” she exclaimed, “I am so glad you have come. I wish I had not stayed out so long.” And her betrothed somehow hardly felt equal to reproaching her for her absence, angry though it had made him but ten short minutes before.
At luncheon that day, the cousins again seemed to have changed characters. Cicely had regained her cheerfulness, Geneviève looked anxious and depressed. She had dark lines under her eyes, and a bright crimson spot on each cheek, and in answer to Mrs. Methvyn’s inquiries she owned to a bad headache.
“You did not walk too far, I hope?” said her aunt. “Was the sun very powerful, Cicely? I am afraid Geneviève is the worse for her walk in some way. You looked so well at breakfast,” she observed, turning to her niece.
“I am not ill, dear aunt. I often have a little headache,” said Geneviève.