“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Methvyn dubiously.
Cicely said no more. She found Geneviève in her own room, but by no means in a very biddable humour. She obstinately refused to “lie down,” declaring that there was nothing the matter with her. Cicely grew tired of the discussion.
“You don’t look well, Geneviève,” she said, “but I dare say it is only the hot weather. Mother is uneasy about you, otherwise I would not tease you.”
“You are not teasing, you are very kind,” Geneviève condescended to say. “It is only that I become first red, then white, that my aunt remarks me. But that is my nature. Remember, I come from the south. I am not quiet and never vexed like you, Cicely.”
Cicely smiled. “Am I never vexed?” she said.
“Not as I am,” said Geneviève. “You are wise and calm. I, when I am unhappy, I could cry a whole week without ceasing.”
“And are you unhappy now?” asked Cicely.
Geneviève did not reply. She turned from her cousin and began putting away her hat and gloves, which were lying as she had thrown them down.
“Tell me, Geneviève,” pursued Cicely boldly—“I am not asking out of curiosity has your unhappiness anything to do with Mr. Guildford?”
Geneviève flashed round upon her.