She was still standing by the window, where she had been reading her letter, the perplexed expression had not left her face, when her mother came into the room.
“I have a letter from Geneviève, Cicely,” she exclaimed; “I don’t at all understand it. She writes begging to come home at once. Is it not silly and unreasonable? They are at Eastbourne now; she could not travel all the way here alone, and I have no one to send for her; and the Fawcetts are coming home themselves in a fortnight; they would certainly be offended if Geneviève left them so suddenly—after all their kindness to her, too. I don’t understand her in the least.”
“Trevor has come back,” said Cicely laconically.
“Trevor come back!” exclaimed Mrs. Methvyn, her thoughts diverted for the moment by the unexpected news. “Dear me! he has returned very suddenly, surely. Have you a letter from him?”
“No,” replied Cicely; “he had not time to write himself, he had just arrived; my letter is from Lady Frederica. Does Geneviève not mention Trevor?”
“Oh! no; she is quite full of this absurd idea of returning here at once,” said Mrs. Methvyn in a tone of annoyance. “What can have put it into her head?”
“It may have to do with Trevor’s return,” said Cicely; “Geneviève is exceedingly quick and impressionable, she would discover at once if she were unwelcome.”
“Unwelcome!” repeated her mother, “what do you mean, my dear?”
Cicely hesitated a moment, then she took her letter out of its envelope again, and held it towards her mother. “You had better read what Lady Frederica says, mother; evidently Geneviève has been hurt by Trevor’s coldness.”
Mrs. Methvyn took the letter and read it. When she came to the postscript a smile stole over her face. “How stupid Frederica is sometimes,” she said complacently; “of course, poor Trevor was disappointed at finding Geneviève there, and not you, Cicely—quite enough to put him out, poor fellow!”