Cicely looked at her anxiously.
“I don’t think it could be the walk,” she said. “Geneviève did not come very far and the sun was not unusually hot. Nothing to what it is at Hivèritz, was it, Geneviève?” she remarked cheerfully to her cousin. “I went to the little door with Trevor and even then—just at noon—it was not very hot. There was a pleasant breeze.”
“Why did not Trevor stay to luncheon, by the bye?” said Mrs. Methvyn.
“I really don’t know. I forget if I asked him,” replied Cicely. “Oh! yes, I remember,” she went on, `“he had to go home because his father wanted him. They are going away again—did you know, mother?”
“How should I know?” said her mother. “I have not seen Trevor or any of them for two days, and then there was certainly no thought of it. When are they going, and where to, and which of them?”
“All of them,” answered Cicely. “Sir Thomas and Lady Frederica are going to the seaside somewhere. They are thinking of the Isle of Wight. And Trevor is going to town again for two or three weeks, and then he is going to join them.”
“I can’t think why they are never contented to stay at home,” said Mrs. Methvyn.
“I am rather glad they are going,” observed Cicely quietly.
Then the attention reverted to Geneviève again. She now looked as pale as she had a few minutes before appeared flushed.
“I hope you are not going to be really ill, my dear child,” said Mrs. Methvyn anxiously. “You don’t feel as if you were, do you?”