The pretty little room looked very comfortable; the bright fire blazing cheerily was a welcome sight to Geneviève.
“A fire!” she exclaimed, “Oh, how charming! Yet it is only September! Have you fires so soon, my cousin?”
“Not always,” said Cicely. “But I thought it would be cheerful for you—you will feel the cold too more than we do—so I ordered it. Now, good night, dear.”
“How kind you are!” said Geneviève regretfully. “Cicely,” she went on hesitatingly, “I hope you will not be vexed at what I told you about. I thought—”
“Please don’t speak about it,” interrupted Cicely. She spoke quickly, but not ungently. “I would rather hear about it afterwards, to-morrow I mean, from Trevor himself. Good night again.”
Geneviève could not muster up courage to attempt to detain her a second time. She held up her pretty face to be kissed, and Cicely then went downstairs again to the library.
“Cicely,” said her mother, as she entered the room, “I don’t think, dear, you should take up what Geneviève said, so hastily. It may not be a ball; most likely it is just some little evening party, and she, poor child, so unaccustomed to anything of the kind as she is, has taken up an exaggerated idea of it.”
Cicely waited till her mother had finished speaking, though once or twice she seemed on the point of interrupting her.
“No, mother dear, I don’t think Geneviève has made a mistake,” she said. “But,” she went on, making an evident effort to control herself, “I will try not to think about it till I hear what it means from Trevor himself.”
“Yes, dear, that is wise. But, Cicely, even if it be as Geneviève says—a regular ball, I mean—you must remember that the Fawcetts have a perfect right to do as they please in such matters. You must not take it up personally.”